


Tenement falls

by Builder



Series: Steelbridge Sixties [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Activism, Alternate Universe, Black Panther Party, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon-Typical Violence, Drugs, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Illegal Activities, Illnesses, Injury, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, No Smut, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Racism, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Sam Wilson has a backstory, Scott Lang is always backup, Sickfic, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Suicide Attempt, Swearing, Veterans, Vietnam War, Vomiting, War, War violence, past natasha romanov/bruce banner - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-12 18:20:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 22,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16000751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: “You ain’t supposed to be doing that.”  Nick nods at the smoke in Steve’s hand.  “So what’ch you doing with that?”  He gazes pointedly at Steve’s pocket.“It’s not mine,” Steve rasps.Nick raises his brows.“I know, I know,” Steve says before Nick has a chance to open his mouth again.  “It’s just, my buddy just came home, and—”“He’s on the China white, and you're gonna patch him up?”  Nick finishes with a snicker.“Well, yeah,” Steve says lamely.  “It’s not funny.”“Boy…”  Nick shakes his head.  “The dope ain’t his problem.  That’s him trying to fix it.  You take that away, the demon’s still gonna be there.”“Yeah…”  Steve sighs.  “But he’s still in there too.”  He coughs again and taps out the cigarette._____Two letters came in the mail the summer after senior year.  Steve's sent him to NYU.  Bucky's sent him to Saigon.  Then one morning, four years later, Steve opens the door of the soup kitchen to find a skinny, grimy, and very familiar addict puking on the front steps.  They can't go back to the way things used to be, but Steve'sstill determined to try.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU. While the characters’ names and general personalities are taken from the MCU canon, very little lines up with stories we know and love.
> 
> This is historical fiction. I was not alive back in the 1960s, but I have a passion for Vietnam-era history, and I’ve done my research. Some of the uncomfortable themes discussed here (war, racism, poor medical care, homophobia) are drawn from issues of the time. 
> 
> This work has TRIGGER WARNINGS. At the risk of spoiling some key scenes, please be aware this story contains drug use, PTSD, references to violence (including guns and war), graphic descriptions of illness and injury, and suicidal situations. There are references to death and grief, but there is NO major character death. There are also references to sex, but no explicit content. There is an excess of profanity in this fic, including an outdated racial slur and many words referring to drugs. In chapter 9, there is a drawing of a historical photograph that includes a protest sign with implied use of the n-word. The word itself does not appear, but it’s clear from context that it was written on the original sign.
> 
> This novella uses younger versions of the characters than what we’re generally used to. I imagine all the mains being between the ages of 20 and 24, with Steve and Bucky being about 22. The Steve Rogers I wrote in this book is what we think of as typical post-serum Steve, but he still has some physical limitations, such as asthma.
> 
> This work has a nonspecific “anytown USA” setting. It does not take place in Brooklyn or New York City. In my mind’s eye, I imagine a retro version of the DC/Northern Virginia neighborhood the boys inhabit in my other Captain America ‘verses. 
> 
> A huge thank you to Mohini for being my beta reader and all-around supporter. I would not be in half as good a spot without you. Thank you for letting me blab about this project, looking at my goofy sketches, and talking me through all the tough times. 
> 
> Thank you to G (@gershel-draws on tumblr) for providing the drawing of T'Challa for Chapter 9, and to Jyoshamatsu (here on AO3) for providing the drawing of Darcy and Nat for Chapter 5. All other art in this fic was created by the author.  
> If you're interested in more of my sickfic content, find me on Tumblr @builder051. If you're interested in more of my Vietnam-era artwork, follow my sideblog @laur-draws-war.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A playlist to get you in the mood.

Here's the playlist for this work.  I chose some songs from the era, some later classic rock songs that emulate the same mood, and some modern alt rock songs that help highlight the timelessness of the characters and their world.

 

We Gotta Get Outta This Place—The Animals

Somebody to Love—Jefferson Airplane

Search and Destroy—Thirty Seconds to Mars

Nineteen—Paul Hardcastle

Unsteady—X Ambassadors

Gimme Shelter—The Rolling Stones

Point of No Return—Kansas

21 Guns—Green Day

Come Sail Away—Styx

Piece of My Heart—Janis Joplin

Sound of Silence—Disturbed cover of Simon and Garfunkel

 

You can access the playlist on YouTube here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q3mgapAcVdU&list=PLjPMrd57HdtnaEMHXWcc1AsrAoWxLssMx


	2. Steve

 

“Morning!”  Steve waves at the huddled group across the street.  He pulls his keys from his pocket and unlocks the door.  There’s a new crack in the glass pane set into it. As much as he hates dipping into the donation money for building repairs, he knows it’s not going to hold much longer. 

“Hey, hey.”  A redheaded woman pushes back the brim of her floppy straw hat and peers at Steve from behind her  _ Peace Now _ sign.  Steve knows her.  She’s a regular in their corner of the neighborhood, and regularly sky-high.  She looks sober enough today, though.

“You mind moving it down the block?” Steve calls

“Aw, man.  You ask every day.”   The redhead pouts, and another young woman laughs loudly.

Steve doesn’t, but it probably seems that way to her.  He makes a point to ask only on the days he thinks she’ll remember.  “It’s the same deal every day. I like your mission, Natasha, but you scare away the clientele.”

She flips him the bird.

Steve laughs.  “Want some coffee?  We’ll have a pot going soon.”

“Nah.  But if you got pot…”  She breaks off cackling. 

“Very funny.”  Steve joins in with a quiet chuckle.  “Just…scoot down the block a little, ok?  Then everybody’s happy.”

“Alright, alright.”  Nat uses her sign’s pole like a walking stick and leads the motley crew of protesters toward the corner.

“Thanks.  See you around.”  Steve watches to make sure they stay put at their new station, then opens the door to venture inside. 

The scent of the bleach from last night’s mopping dominates the dining room, but Steve can still smell notes of greasy food and unwashed bodies that betray what this is, despite his best attempts to prove otherwise.  A collection place for the things nobody else wants. 

Steve’s barely flipped on the light when someone’s already ignoring the  _ closed _ sign and knocking on the glass of the door.  “Hey, man!” a gruff voice calls.

“No, no, wait!”  Steve whips around.

But the man disregards both the warning and the cracks in the pane.  He knocks again, and the glass shatters, raining down like diamonds in the pale morning light.

“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” the man waffles, twisting nervously at his beard.  “I just wanted to know if you still did breakfast…” His jaw trembles, even though it isn’t cold out.  “I need some coffee real bad.”

“It’s alright.”  It’s clear he needs something else real bad, but Steve commends him for coming to the shelter.  Even if he didn’t read the sign. “Did you get cut? On the glass?” Steve opens the door and sweeps the shards to the side with his foot.

“Naw, man, I’m just hungry.  I…” He lets out a huffing breath.  “Do you got a cigarette or something?”

Steve knows he shouldn’t do favors for customers, otherwise they’ll come to expect it and he’ll be in over his head.  And probably thousands in debt to boot. But he feels bad about the glass, so he reaches into his back pocket for the pack of Marlboros he’s not supposed to be smoking anyway.  “Here.” Steve holds out a cigarette and his lighter. “We start serving breakfast at eight, ok?”

“Thanks, man.”

“Sure thing.”  Steve watches him limp down the sidewalk, glad to have brought at least a little brightness to his day. 

A car skids up to the curb and parks crookedly in front of the shelter.  Steve doesn’t have to look to know who it is. He’d recognize his friend’s squeaky tires a mile away. 

“An hour till showtime, and you’re already having a morning,” Sam says as he climbs out and pops the trunk.  He points to the shelter’s busted door. “That glass finally gave out, huh?”

“Yeah,” Steve sighs.  “I had an... enthusiastic solicitor.  I’ll clean it up and find something to cover it with till the repair man can get here.”  He starts inside to get a broom.

“Wait, help me with this stuff first,” Sam says, struggling to heave a crate. 

“Sure.”  Steve hops down the steps and takes the box.  “What’s the haul today?”

“Tuna,” Sam grunts, hefting a second crate and slamming the trunk shut.  “And corn. Just a couple days out of date. Not too bad.”

“Not bad at all.”  Steve leads the way, tiptoeing around the remnants of the glass.  “Guess I know what we’re making for lunch.”

“As long as it’s not tuna salad for breakfast,” Sam laughs. 

They take the boxes back to the pantry, then set to work preparing for the breakfast rush.  Sam boils water for coffee and oatmeal while Steve sees to the sweeping.

“There they are,” he says as he tapes a torn manila folder over the empty pane.  “Already lining up.”

Sam dumps canned peaches into a serving bowl.  “How many today?”

“Twenty?  Maybe?” Steve estimates.  “More coming.”

“There’s always more coming.”  Sam shakes his head. Then, “You see Nat up on the corner?  Still waving her banner?”

“Yeah, she and the whole gang were right out front this morning.”

“You should ask her to come in someday,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows.  “Instead of telling her to move on through.”

“I do!”  Steve tears off a piece of tape with his teeth.  “At least once a week.”

“Start asking her every day.  She’ll say yes eventually.”

“Eh.”  Steve shrugs.  “She’s not really my type.”

“She’s a fox, man.  She’s everyone’s type.”

Steve laughs it off and tosses the tape into his tiny, cluttered office, then joins Sam in the kitchen. 

“Mm.”  Steve inhales the scent of the cooking oats.  “Where’d you get cinnamon?”

Sam hesitates.  “My mama’s kitchen.”

“You two-faced son-of-a-gun.”  Steve smacks him on the shoulder with a wooden spoon.  “You can’t expect me be stingy when you’re bringing in your own stuff.”

“Hey, you stop it.”  Sam swats the spoon away.  “Plain oats are nasty and you know it.”

“I guess that’s fair,” Steve says.  “Well, no, it’s not, but you know what I mean.”

“Sure do, brother.”  Sam looks up at the clock.  “Quarter till. Need help putting out the dishes?”

“You’re not calling me weak, now, are you?”  Steve lifts a bin of cutlery with one hand and a stack of trays with the other.  “Mr. come-help-me-unload-my-car.”

“You know, if it wasn’t impossible to not to like you,” Sam starts, moving a decanter of coffee to a rolling cart, “You might be getting on my nerves with all that name-calling.”

“Well, I’ll count my blessings, then.”  Steve shoots him a grin. He arranges the trays and silverware at the end of the food counter as Sam sets up the serving platters on the kitchen-side.

The sound of people jostling each other drifts in from outside.  The paper-covered door makes it easy to hear what’s going on. A certain amount of anxious shuffling and sleepy grumbles are normal, but today it seems a notch down from violent.  It’s another fact of life in these parts; punches get thrown from time to time. But it’s still something Steve likes to avoid.

“Alright, alright,” he mutters under his breath.  “I’m coming.” It’s not quite eight o’clock, but if opening the doors a few minutes early keeps a fight from breaking out, Steve’s more than happy to do it. 

The noise of the scuffle grows louder as Steve approaches the door.  “Hey, stop it, man,” somebody says, clearly irritated. “Wait your fucking turn.” 

There’s an incoherent grunt, then the sound of knuckles connecting with flesh.  A body slams into the door, and the folder Steve affixed over the empty panel flutters to the floor.  A silhouette with stringy hair crumples down onto the doorstep.

“Break it up, or I’m asking you to leave,” Steve say sternly.  He’s afraid to open the door and dislodge the body slumped against it, but no one seems to be helping the guy.  Steve bites the bullet and drops to a squat as soon as he unlatches it. The man falls backward against Steve’s knees, still mumbling obscenities. 

“Fuck.  Get off me.”  His fist flies toward Steve’s face. 

“I’m not on you,” Steve says, ducking the blow.  “You ok?”

“Yeah, I’m…”  The man trails off into something garbled, then uses Steve’s shoulder to claw his way to his feet.  “Stop fucking looking at me, you goddamn fuckers--” He makes it two steps before his voice dies in his throat and he falls again.

“Oh, geez.”  Steve reaches to help him up, but the man’s on all fours now, retching onto the sidewalk.  It’s not the first time someone in line’s been too high or too drunk or too hungry, but it doesn’t make the situation any more pleasant. 

Steve awkwardly pats his shoulder.  The man moans in pain, and Steve realizes the left sleeve of his jacket is empty and flapping against the ground.  “I’m sorry,” he says, quickly withdrawing his touch. 

“Get away from me,” the man chokes.  His lank hair hangs in curtains on either side of his face.  The front he’s putting up is decidedly unfriendly, but something about him is familiar. 

“Then fucking scram, man,” one of the others in line says, nudging the sick one with the toe of his boot.

“Hey, there’s no need for that.”  Steve steps between them.

The long-haired man vomits again, then spits and growls, “I’ll fucking pound you.”  He gets unsteadily to his feet again and raises his singular fist.

“Alright, break it up.”  Steve gives him a light push away from the rest of the assembled homeless. 

“Want me to call the cops?” Sam yells from inside.

“No, don’t do that,” Steve says.  Then man’s on the verge of losing his balance, and Steve feels bad for him.  “He’s just sick. Probably confused.”

The man coughs roughly, then gags.  He drags the back of his hand across his lips.

“Alright.”  Steve hovers his hand over the man’s quivering arm.  “You ok?”

“Ugh.  Yeah.” He spits again, then turns his head a fraction of an inch toward Steve. 

“Oh my god.”  Steve’s breath catches in his throat.  The man’s hair is overgrown and he’s grimy and his eyes have sunken behind what’s probably been a lifetime’s worth of tragedy.  But it’s not a face Steve could forget. “Bucky?” he whispers.

“What the hell…?”  The man’s eyes go unfocused.  His Adam’s apple bobs up and down.  He dry heaves hard, then sways on his feet.

“Buck?” Steve says hurriedly, catching him around the chest.  “James? Can you hear me?”  _ Come on _ , he thinks desperately.   _ You know me _ .

Steve’s heart sinks to his stomach when he realizes that might not be true.  Not anymore. They haven’t seen each other since the summer after senior year, when they both got letters in the mail.  But Steve’s had sent him to NYU. Bucky’s had sent him to Saigon. 

“What about an ambulance?”  Sam’s at the door now, looking to see what all the fuss is about.

“Just get the fucker out of here,” one of the men in line sneers.

“Hey.  You be quiet,” Sam tells him, jabbing one finger threateningly into the empty air between them..

“No, he’s confused,” Steve repeats, refusing to acknowledge the distraction.  “He’s scared.” He hopes that’s what it is. But the droop to Bucky’s eyelids tells a different story. 

“He needs medical attention,” Sam says. 

“Yeah.”  Steve weighs his options.  Medical attention is a good idea.  Emergency transport doesn’t rate as highly, given Bucky’s disoriented belligerence.  “Yeah. I’ll, uh…”

“I’ll hold the fort.”  Sam rolls his eyes. He digs his keys out of his pocket and throws them to Steve.  “Go drive him to the hospital, you big-hearted fool.”

“Who’s name-calling now?”  Steve shoots him a grin. “Thanks, man.  I owe you one.”

“Yeah, you do.”  Sam flips the sign in the window to  _ open _ , then addresses the crowd.  “Come on in. Chow time.”

“Ok.  I got you.”  Bucky’s barely holding onto consciousness as Steve steers him toward the car.  He tumbles into the passenger seat, and Steve tucks his legs in before slamming the door and hurrying around to the driver’s side.

“I’m gonna get you some help, ok?”  Steve steals a glance at Bucky’s pallid face, then turns his attention to the road.  He speeds to the end of the block and looks both ways. He fully intends to turn toward the hospital.  But at the last second, Steve turns toward home instead.

 


	3. James

 

 

The seat below him is vibrating.  It takes Bucky’s brain an inordinate amount of time to put together what that means.  It’s not a helicopter. But he is moving. And he doesn’t like it.

“Hey, stop it,” he groans.  “I don’t wanna go.”

“You’re in rough shape,” a voice answers. 

The vehicle swings around a corner, and Bucky slides sideways.  His head bounces off the window. He can tell now that it’s a car.  A regular one. Not one of the overcrowded roofless armored personnel carriers he’s become accustomed to.

“Ow.”  The reaction’s delayed, but Bucky still feels the need to voice it.  He hurts. And best he can tell, it’s this guy’s fault. Whoever he is.  “I don’t wanna go.”

“Well.”  Gravel crunches under the tires as they pull into a well-worn driveway.  “It’s here, or the hospital. I’ll leave it up to you.”

Bucky moves his head as slowly as possible as he turns to look at his getaway driver.  His stomach’s still in his throat, and his eyelids seem stuck at half-mast. Through the shadow of his lashes, Bucky makes out the man’s broad shoulders.  A strong jaw. A shock of blonde hair. 

Bucky might know him.  But he’s seen a lot of faces lately.  And anyone not looking at him from under the curved edge of a helmet or up from the pages of a magazine is low on his list of priorities to remember.

“Hey.”  The man puts his hand on Bucky’s knee.  Bucky wants to jerk away, but his body’s too heavy to move.  “I know you’re fucked up right now, but…” He bites his lip. 

The pendulum begins to swing the other way, and Bucky’s urge to move changes direction.  What if he reached up to touch this guy’s cheek? 

He’d probably end up with a fist to the bridge of his nose.  But Bucky can’t shake the feeling that he’s done it before. And the consequences weren’t that bad.

“You know me.”  The man’s voice cuts through Bucky’s hazy thoughts.  “It’s Steve.”

“Steve…” Bucky echoes.  He knew two Steves overseas.  They’d both gone up in the same fiery blast, and that had been an interesting thing to try to explain to his commanding officer.  When two guys with the same name get blown to bits in front of you, they start to have the same face too.

But this guy is different.  He comes from a separate era of memory.  His voice reminds Bucky of the dew that collects on blades of grass.  Or the sweat that beads up on flushed cheeks before it begins to run. 

That’s stupid.  It’s the drugs talking.  

Speaking of which, Bucky’s fingers shake in his clenched fist, sending tremors up his arm and across the bridge of his collarbones to his stump shoulder, where they ignite a separate kind of pain.  The kind he’ll do anything to escape, both for the hurt and the uncensored images that feed in from his peripheral vision when he starts to get too sober.

“I…yeah.  It’s Steve.”  He smiles. “And you’re Bucky.”

“Mm-hm.”  The longer he keeps his eyes open, the less anything makes sense.  But at least Bucky remembers his own name. Because god knows there have been points where he hasn’t.

“Come on.  Let’s go inside.” 

The car shakes when Steve gets out, and again when he opens Bucky’s door.  Bucky almost falls out on top of him, which he’s pretty sure he’s already done once today.  Then a sick belch bursts out of him, and he doesn’t have time to say he’s going to throw up before he does.  He’s pretty sure he’s already done that today too.

“It’s alright,” Steve says. 

Bucky’s vision tunnels.  He knows Steve’s lying. He leans against the car, pressing his elbow and his palm against the sun-warmed roof.  It does little to help the chill that’s taken up residence in his bones, but it keeps him from collapsing. And it distracts him from the painful bitterness sizzling on his tongue. 

“Come on.  Let’s go in.”  Steve’s voice echoes in Bucky’s ears, and he subconsciously leans toward it. 

“Yeah.  Alright.”  Bucky follows the encouragement.  Steve’s arm loops around his waist, and his hand comes down on Bucky’s stump. 

White hot pain splits his body down the middle.  Bucky’s pretty sure he yells. He definitely cries.  Either that or his eyes are bleeding, which wouldn’t be entirely out of the realm of possibility.  Everything turns to a blur of agony set to the tune of _ I’m sorry.  Oh my god, I’m so sorry… _

Then it fades to black.

***

There’s something cold on his forehead.  And wet. Bucky reaches to wipe his brow. He’ll never get used to the humidity that mats his hair and the stinging rain that soaks through his uniform.

“No, leave it there.”  Someone blocks his hand.  

Bucky peels his eyes open.  A blurry figure hovers over his chest.  He’s too close. Bucky doesn’t like it. 

This guy needs to get away.  Bucky tries to curse at him, to utter something that’ll scare him off no matter what language he speaks.  But the only sound he can force from his lips is a groan.

“Hey, it’s alright.”

But it’s not.  He’s aware enough to know that. And this guy should, too.  Bucky clenches a fist and flails at the man’s sternum. It’s a weak punch, but it delivers the message.  

“Ok, I’m sorry.”  He backs up, but stays in Bucky’s line of sight.  Bucky swats the cloth off his face. It falls to the floor with a wet thump.  

“It’s me, Buck.  It’s Steve. Remember?”  The compress reappears on Bucky’s forehead.

Bucky blinks a few times, and the room begins to focus.  The pattern of the curtains distinguishes itself from the wallpaper.  Then Bucky sees the face looking down at him. 

Oh.  That Steve.  The one who he’d fucked senseless on this very couch the night of senior prom…

That can’t be right.  Bucky shakes his head, and everything fuzzes over again.  He decides maybe he likes it better that way. 

“Hey.  Talk to me.  You awake?”

“Shut up.”  That’s not what the words sound like tumbling from Bucky’s mouth, but it’s what he means.  

Steve seems to get it.  “Sorry,” he says. Something he’s repeated a lot now.  “You can go back to sleep soon.”

“Hmph.” 

“I’ll make good on it.  I promise.” Steve’s smiling.  Bucky must be hallucinating. But he blinks, and the grin’s still there.

“What?” Bucky groans.

“I just…  It’s real good to see you, Buck.”  He pauses. “Even if, you know, a lot’s happened.”  Steve’s eyes flick from Bucky’s stump arm back to his face.

Bucky rolls his eyes.  He regrets it when vertigo swells into nausea.  He tips his head back against the arm of the sofa and lets out his breath, as if expelling oxygen will do anything to settle his stomach.

He likes Steve.  But he can’t wait for this interaction to be over.  Bucky isn’t sure if the feelings he has toward the guy are tethered to the here and now, or if it’s carryover from a time when the word  _ uniform _ meant a football jersey.  There’s another gust of memory, full of autumn breeze and candy apple kisses, and Bucky realizes Steve’s talking to him again.

“What’s hurting?”

That’s a question.  Bucky laughs. He laughs until he wheezes, until he gags.  The cloth slips from his forehead and lands on his chest. Steve grabs it and cups it under Bucky’s chin, ready to catch the refuse if he brings anything up.  

But he’s long past that.  Bucky rides out the contractions of his empty stomach, letting the pain ripple through him and settle into throbs in his head and his back and his shoulders.

“Guess that wasn’t a real good question, huh?”  Steve smiles again. 

Bucky wants to tell him to cut it out, but he’s afraid his voice will die in another strangled retch.  He coughs weakly, and flecks of spit fly from his lips and stick in the stubble on his jaw.

Steve wipes them away.  He sets the cloth somewhere, then rests the backs of his knuckles against the same spot, gently tracing the curve of Bucky’s cheek, down to his chin, and to his neck..  

A thrill makes Bucky’s heart thud against his ribs.  His first instinct is panic. Or maybe it’s desire. He’s felt one of those a lot, and he can’t wait to forget about it.  The other’s been repressed a long time. He can’t decide if it’s something he wants to remember.

“I’m sorry, Buck.”  There he goes again.  Steve withdraws his touch.  “You’re running a fever.” He takes a step away from the couch.  Bucky breathes a sigh of relief he didn’t know he was holding in.  Somehow it’s easier to trust Steve when he isn’t so close.

“I know you’ve been through a lot,” Steve says.  

Understatement of the century.

“You should probably go to the hospital.  Get checked out.”

Bucky has an answer to that one.  “No,” he says firmly. “I just… I already…”  He shakes his head a fraction of an inch to each side.  “I can’t.”

“Alright, don’t strain yourself.  We can talk about it later.” Steve keeps his distance, but he moves his hands palm-down in a pacifying gesture.  His face slowly moves from concern to something happier. “I’m really glad you came back.”

Exhaustion melds with pain, and all of it hangs under a haze of craving.  Bucky doesn’t remember how to feel. Maybe it’s a good thing, because thinks he’d probably let Steve have it if he did.  How can he know any of the age-old memories of him are real? Bucky’s watched a couple of cities blow up since then, and it’s thoroughly corrupted his ability to pick out the things he’s only seen in his head from the lineup of things he’s seen with his eyes. 

“You sleep, ok?” Steve says.  “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Hm.”  Bucky does his best to acknowledge the words, to force them to sink in.  But when it comes down to it, he can’t tell if it’s a reassurance or a threat.  


	4. Steve

Even after Bucky falls asleep, Steve can’t bring himself to leave his side.  He sits on the floor with his legs stretched out in front of him. He tips his head back against the couch cushions, and soon he falls into a doze himself.  

The phone rings.  Steve startles awake and leaps to his feet.   He ignores the ache in his tailbone and dashes into the kitchen. 

“Hello?” he breathes into the receiver.  Steve stands in the doorway, his chest heaving, and watches Bucky’s face.  It’s contorted in a pained expression, but at the sound doesn’t seem to have roused him.

“Hey,” Sam’s voice carries over the line.  “Judging by the fact that you actually picked up, you’re not still at the hospital.”

“What?”

“I’m not exactly equipped to make a hundred and fifty tuna fish sandwiches by myself, but I’m guessing that’s not on your mind either.”

Steve looks at the clock.  It’s after ten. Only a couple hours have passed since he whisked Bucky away from the breakfast line, and half of it spent asleep, but it may as well have been a year.  Things that were priorities when he started his shift this morning are dusty now and coated with cobwebs. 

“Shit, Sam…”  Steve rubs his eye with the heel of his hand.  “I’m sorry. I just…” He searches for a way to explain himself, but comes up empty. 

“Did you even take him to the hospital?” Sam asks skeptically.

“I will,” Steve says.  “If he gets any worse, I will.”

“Christ.”  Sam sighs. “You can’t save ‘em all, Steve.  You know that. You can’t let your life get derailed every time you see someone who needs help.”

“It’s different with him, though.”  Steve pauses, unsure of how much he wants to say.  “I knew him. We were…we were friends.”

“Everyone’s got a buddy like that nowadays.  Fucked up. Dead.” Sam gives a short, humorless laugh. 

“I’m sorry.”  Steve watches Bucky’s chest rise and fall.  The rhythm of his breath is faster and less even.  “It’s just for today. I’ll figure something out by tomorrow.”  He lifts his bangs off his forehead. “I’ll get someone to cover the rest of my shift.”

“I already called Scotty,” Sam says.  Steve can practically see his smirk. “And I’m guessing I’ll have to walk down to your place and pick up my wheels tonight.”

“I’ll owe you one.”

“You owe me, like, a hundred.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” Steve promises.  He watches Bucky shift in his sleep, wrapping his arm protectively around his stomach.  “Hey, do you think you could bring over a couple things later?”

“Weren’t you just saying you owed me?”

“I was saying I’d make it up to you.”  Steve puts on a dulcet tone.

“Yeah, ok.  What now?” Sam asks.

“Applesauce,” Steve says.  “Maybe some rice.” He looks from Bucky’s face to the camouflage collar of his jacket.  “Actually, no. White bread. I think there’s some in the pantry that’s not out of date yet.”

“Easy-to-digest things?”  Sam’s catching on.

“Yeah.”

There’s a pause.  “You can’t keep him, Steve.  He’s not a stray dog.”

Steve lets out a slow breath.  “I know. But I’m not letting him starve tonight either.”

“Ok,” Sam says.  “Ok. Fine. I’m not letting it slide, though.  One day. That’s it.”

Bucky’s eyelids flutter, and a gurgling sound comes from his throat. 

“Shit,” Steve mutters.  “I gotta go. See you later.”  He doesn’t wait for Sam to reply.  He slams the receiver back into its cradle and dashes back to the living room. 

Bucky’s eyes go wide when he sees him, throwing hooks into Steve’s stomach that set off pangs of sympathy under the urgent flutter of panic. 

“Ok, Buck.”  Steve grabs a handful of his jacket and hauls him onto his side, shifting him so his head and stump arm hang off the edge of the couch.  Yellow bile runs from his mouth into a puddle on the carpet. He sputters for a second, then drags in a shaky, wet-sounding breath. 

“Ok,” Steve reassures him.  ”You’re ok.”

“I-I…” Bucky stutters.  He tries to wipe his mouth on his shoulder, but it looks like it hurts too much.  He gives up and collapses onto his back. 

Steve slips his hand under Bucky’s shoulder blades and hoists him up so he’s only half reclined.  The hard ridge of his spine stands out beneath his dirty overcoat. Bucky’s scraggly beard does a decent job of disguising his cheekbones, but now that Steve’s looking for them, he has a hard time tearing his gaze away.  

He’s not stupid.  He might not know the names of the street drugs, but he knows what it means when people look like that.  With Bucky’s fever and vomiting and the way he’s been acting, Steve wonders when he last put something in his body that didn’t come from a needle.  

“You’re safe,” Steve says.  “Nothing’s going to hurt you here.”  His stomach twinges again as guilt joins the stew of emotions.  Sure, Bucky will be safe from guns and bombs and the dangers of living on the streets.  Steve wishes he could shield him from other bad memories. Or at least not be the cause of them.

But there’s no time to think about that.  Bucky grumbles something unintelligible and presses the heel of his shaking hand to his forehead.  He’s not sweating as much as he was a couple hours ago. 

Priorities.  Steve can manage that.  “Alright, Buck.” He gently touches Bucky’s chest before he starts to unzip his jacket.  “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Bucky makes an uncomfortable sound, but he doesn’t protest.  Body odor and stale cigarette smoke waft up as Steve removes the jacket and tosses it on the floor.  There’s another scent underneath. Something worse. 

“Jesus.”  Steve’s voice catches in his throat when he sees the sleeve of Bucky’s undershirt.  It’s the greenish-brown of standard Army issue, but patches are darkened with the weep from a wound.

“Ok,” Steve whispers.  He rolls the sleeve up on itself with difficulty.  The fabric sticks to Bucky’s skin, dried puss gluing it in place.  Bucky whimpers and tries to pull away, but there’s nowhere for him to go.  He pushes his back deeper into the corner of the sofa and grinds his teeth together.

“I’m sorry.”  Steve barely dares to breathe, not wanting to introduce more pathogens into what’s clearly already infected.  

The shock that Bucky’s arm is gone is lost in a rush of pity and anger.  The joint of his shoulder is intact, albeit bony, and there’s an inch or so of bicep chiseled beneath it.  His skin is pearly to the bottom of the stump, where puckered red lines stretch toward his armpit and spread blotchy patches of pink inflammation and purple bruising down the side of his ribs.  The wounds themselves are partly healed, a mess of dark scabs and whitish open areas still oozing fetid liquid.

“They let you leave the hospital like this?” Steve asks incredulously.

Bucky shrugs with his good side.  “Needed the bed,” he murmurs.

“Jesus,” Steve says again.  Everything starts to make a sick sort of sense.  Given that amount of pain, who wouldn’t go looking for comfort in the bottom of a bottle or a baggie of powder?  “You should’ve come to me right away, Buck…” Steve shakes his head.

“Well...”  Bucky tilts his head.  

Steve feels guilty again.  Bucky had been on the steps of the shelter this morning.  Whether he was looking for help of just a hot meal is beside the point now.  And he could never have known it would be Steve to open the door for him. He wouldn’t have known Steve came back to live in the same house, on the same street, in the same town.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs.  “Let’s just try to get you better, alright?”  But when he looks back at Bucky, his eyes are shut again.  

Steve carefully applies antibiotic ointment with a cotton swab and wraps the area with gauze.  He gives Bucky water to drink, then holds the trash can in his lap as he throws it back up. Every time he coughs and gags, Steve wonders exactly what’s sparking this moment of sickness.  Was that round from the pain? The infection? The obvious withdrawal? 

Steve thinks he remembers something about sugar water as a solution for quick energy when nothing else will stay down, but considering the luck they’re having with plain water, he’s not hopeful.  It would be a waste of effort and resources.

_ But nothing’s a waste _ , Steve reminds himself.   _ You’d do the same for anyone in need. _

It’s not quite true.  He’s doing more, and he’s worrying more.  But the lie is easier to carry than the heavy weight of the debt he needs to settle.  And, more importantly, it’s Bucky. Steve wonders if the shock is sparking a touch of delirium in him as well.  Bucky’s been gone four years. But when he blinks hard and rubs his eyes, he’s still there, huddled and shaking on the sofa.  

Eventually Bucky slips into unconsciousness again.  Steve’s tired, but too anxious to let himself rest. He may as well get some real work done while he waits for Sam to show up.  Steve sits on the floor with a pencil and a sheet of paper, the world atlas spread over his knees as a desk. He wants to stay close enough to hear Bucky’s uneven breathing.

Steve can’t remember what his assignment is.  He’d been in the newspaper office just yesterday to collect his check and a new set of tasks, but things have changed since then.  Steve’s world revolves around a different sun. 

He taps his pencil as he thinks.  They always like pictures of soldiers.  Brawny and barely clothed, skinny and starving, holding babies, holding guns…  It hardly matters anymore.

Steve starts with the sharp collar of a uniform, then sleeves rolled up on muscular arms.  He draws the visor of the helmet without a second thought, but he looks up before he starts on the face.  Even though Bucky’s eyes are closed, Steve knows exactly what they look like.

 

 

 


	5. Nat

Nat wakes warm under Clint’s arm.   He’s still flat on his back and snoring, but Nat knows she won’t fall back asleep.  Sunlight filters through the apartment’s dusty window. She may as well greet the day.  

She leaves Clint and pushes back the curtain separating the makeshift boudoir from the rest of the living space.  Darcy’s already peeling an orange over the sink, a towel on her head and a cigarette between her teeth. 

“You sharing?” Nat asks, rubbing sleep from her eyes.  

“Sharing what?”  Darcy gives her a look.  

Nat grins and reaches for a section of the orange.  She pops it in her mouth, then snatches the cigarette too.  “Everything.” She takes a puff and blows the white smoke in Darcy’s face.

“Hey!”

“Shhh.  Hawk’s still asleep.”

“Why do you guys call him that?”  Darcy tosses down the last bit of orange peel.  “He’s blind as a fucking bat. He had the light on all night to read his damn newspaper.  Like an old man.” She wrinkles her nose.

“Well, there’s a simple fix to that problem.”  Nat takes another drag.

“What?” Darcy asks, her mouth full.

“Stay out later.”  Nat laughs at the exasperation that crosses Darcy’s face.  She taps out the cigarette and throws the butt down the drain.  

“I just might.  I’m getting sunburned, being out all day with you guys.”  Darcy turns and yanks her blouse down her shoulder. “Look.”

“So cover up.”  Nat shrugs. “If you don’t like what we do, you could always leave.  You don’t gotta live here.”

“No, no, I like it here,” Darcy says quickly.  “I like doing this. I want to end the war. I even copied some more flyers yesterday.”  She nods at a disorganized stack of papers on the table. 

“Ok, ok.”  Nat helps herself to another section of the orange.  “You don’t gotta work yourself up, either.” She watches Darcy take a deep breath and tries not to be too pleased with herself.

“Hawk!” Nat yells.

“Mm.  What?” he groans sleepily from behind the curtain.  

“We’re leaving in five minutes.  Get your ass out of bed.”

“Make me.”

Nat rolls her eyes.  She pushes the curtain aside and stands over the mattress, hands on her hips.  Clint’s still breathing deeply, but she knows he’s feigning. 

“Come on, man.”

“Gotcha!”  Clint jerks to life, grabbing Nat’s wrist and pulling her forward until her lips jam against his.  “Mm,” he breathes into her mouth. “You taste good.”

“And you’re disgusting.”  Nat kisses the stubble above his lip and dances out of reach.  She finds one of his shirts on the floor and throws it at him. “Get dressed.  We gotta go save the world.”

 

 

Even with Clint’s lollygagging, they get in place with their banners and guitar cases before the street fully comes to life.  Nat scuffs her sandal back and forth across the pavement and runs through her mental catalogue of slogans and half-written songs.  She looks up when she hears footsteps.

“Hey.”  It’s not the cheery greeting Steve usually gives.  His face is devoid of happiness, too. He pushes his hands deep in his pockets as he crosses the street at a clip. 

“Hey, yourself,” Nat says, raising her eyebrows and taking a step backward. 

“Sorry.”  Steve rolls his shoulders back.  “Do you want to come in for a cup of coffee?”

Nat stares at him.  “No. Not really.” 

Steve sighs.  “Please? I need to talk to you.”

“Whoa, whoa.”  Nat holds a hand up between them.  “Listen, Steve-o. We got a right to assemble.”  She looks him up and down. “And you’re way too clean-cut for me.”

“Yeah, I know.”  He laughs nervously.  “I just…I really need to talk to you.  I need you to help me.”

“With what?”  Nat imagines he has a whole host of better people he could call on.  Guys who probably still wear their high school letterman jackets and hide from the draft behind tuition checks.  Nat tries not to cringe.

“Just…come inside.  I’ll give you money.  I’ll make it worth your while.  I promise.”

“I’m not a hooker,” Nat blurts.

“Jesus.”  Steve shakes his head violently.  “That’s… I didn’t mean… Just coffee.  And talk.”

“I’m just messing with you,” Nat cackles.  “I know you’re a total innocent.”

“Oh.  Well…”  Steve blushes.

Now that she has the upper hand, Nat decides to accept the offer.  “Hey. Hawk.” She pokes him with the corner of her sign. “Hold this.  I got a date.”

“Yes, ma’am.”  He accepts the pole and gives her a seductive look.

“Don’t be gross.  It’s a coffee date.”  Nat pushes the bell sleeve of her sweater up to her elbow and loops her arm with Steve’s. 

“Oh.”  He seems surprised by the physical contact.  “Ok. Just. Here.” They shuffle across the street, then he quickly disengages to open the door for her.

“Have a seat.”  Steve gestures to one of the tables surrounded by mismatched chairs.  Nat ignores the invitation and follows him into the kitchen. She hoists herself up onto the counter and smooths her skirt over her knees. 

“Alright.  That’s good too.”  Steve shoots her a nervous smile.  He busies himself with a couple of plastic mugs, adding cream and sugar, then slowly washing the spoon.  He barely catches Nat’s eye when he hands over the beverage. 

“Thank you much,” Nat says, sticking out her pinky and taking a dainty sip.  It does the job of eliciting a chuckle from him. Nat grins and makes her next draught a slurping gulp.

‘So, um,”  Steve starts, wrapping both hands around his mug.  He leans against the counter beside Nat’s knees. “I have this friend.”

“A girl?” Nat asks.

“Oh, uh, no.  You might know him, actually,” Steve says.  “Bucky? Or James. His name’s James Barnes.  He, uh. Has one arm?”

“J.B.?” Nat perks up.  “Yeah, I’ve seen him around.  Not for a couple days, though.”

“Yeah, he’s staying with me,” Steve says.  “Just, you know, just for a while. I knew him back before the war.  We were in school together.”

“Uh-huh.”  Nat refrains from telling him that the more he explains, the more transparent his expression becomes. 

“He’s not doing so good.”  A line of worry creases his forehead.  He looks up at Nat. “Do you know what he’s on?”

“Excuse me?”  Nat almost chokes on her coffee.

“I mean,” Steve stammers.  “I wouldn’t ask, but he’s pretty bad off.  He’s got wounds that aren’t healing, he can’t hold anything down…”  He shakes his head.

“And you think because I’m a dirty hippie I automatically know everybody’s poison?”

“I _ — _ ” Steve squeezes his eyes shut as if he’s expecting her to hit him.  “No. I don’t. I just… You know people. You’re good at reading them.”

“I’m a manipulator?”

“No!  You’re _ — _ you’re nice!”

“I’m nice?”  Nat can’t contain her laughter.  “You gotta get your facts straight, Steve-o.”

“Listen.”  Steve takes a shaky sip of his coffee.  “Bucky’s sick. He’s coming off something, and it’s kicking his ass.  I don’t want him to be a user, but I can’t let him suffer. There’s so much else he needs to get through first.”

“Huh.”  Nat’s beginning to see where this is going.  “So you want to wean him off?”

Steve sighs and scrubs his hand down the side of his face.  “Yeah. Basically.”

“Huh.”  Nat drains her mug while she thinks.  It seems like an honorable cause. But there’s still a ways to go before she can decide if it’s worth the risk.

“So.  Can you _ — _ ?”

“Hey, hold your horses.”  Nat gives Steve a knee to the shoulder to shut him up.  “I gotta ask you some questions first.”

“Ok.  Yeah.”  Steve turns to look at her.

“Right.  If I help you with this, there are gonna be rules.  Alright?”

“Yeah.  Of course.”

“Ok.”  Nat sets her cup down.  “One. No pumping him full of the good shit just to make him happy and then throwing him back out.  Contrary to popular belief, I do want to clean up the streets a little.”

“I would never,” Steve says.  Nat sees the sincerity flash in his eyes.  She hopes he’s not about to start crying.

“No throwing him in the hospital either.  That’s worse.”

“Yeah.  He won’t go.  That won’t be a problem.”

“Good.  Next rule.  Jelly roll’s serious business, even if it don’t sound like it.  I get it to you, and I’m done. I’m not helping you cook it or whatever _ — _ ”

“Sorry.”  Steve cuts her off.  “Jelly roll?”

“Jesus, man.  Do I gotta spell it out for you?”  

“It’s not, I mean, I don’t…” he stutters

“Dope,” Nat tells him.  Steve’s confused look doesn’t fade.  “Heroin. You know? Powdery white stuff?”

Steve breathes out slowly and sets his half-drunk coffee on the counter.  “Is that really...really what he’s on?” He sounds sad and scared, and for a second Nat feels sorry for him.  But there’s no sugar-coating real life.

“It’s what everyone in his spot’s on.  Doctors are stupid, you know? They give ‘em drugs, call it medicine, then kick ‘em out when they need an empty bed for the next guy.”  

“Yeah.  He told me as much,” Steve sighs.  “But...but you’ve really seen him do it?  How does he even…?” He shakes his head. “With his arm, and all.”

“There are more veins in the human body, Steve.  Come on.”

“Yeah.  I just…”  A shiver runs through him.  

Nat leans in closer.  “I know. It sucks.”

“Yeah,” Steve says again.  He stays quiet for a moment.  Then, “So. You’re good? You can…?”

“Uh-huh.”  Nat hops down from the counter.  “Gimme some time. A few hours, at least.”

“Ok.”

“Want me to hand it off here?”

“Uh, no.  My house,” Steve says.  “If you can. He’s asleep now, but I don’t want to leave him too long.”

“What’s your address?”  Nat picks up Steve’s unfinished coffee and swirls it around the bottom of the mug.  She raises her eyebrows at him as she tosses it back.

“It’s the yellow one, on Stokesburg.  With the fence and the busted driveway.”

“You’re serious?   _ That’s _ your house?  I didn’t think you got paid shit, working here.”  She gestures around at the shelter’s outdated kitchen.

“It’s my parents’ place.  They left it to me, after they… you know.”  Steve presses his lips together and shrugs.

“I’m sorry,” Nat says, and she means it.  Steve’s suddenly much more human than she’s seen him as before.  He’s one step from being a war widow, with his fucked up boyfriend and nonsensical career choice.  On top of being a kid with no parents. 

That’s what he really is.  A kid. He still has pimples showing through his blonde stubble.  The couple years Nat has on him may as well be decades.

“It’s alright.”  Steve reaches for his pocket.  “How much do I owe you? I’ll pay for the stuff, plus your time.”

“No.”  Nat holds up her hand.  “Money’s dirty.”

“But _ — _ ”

“I’ll bill you later.  I get good discounts,” she says.

“Are...are you sure?”  

“Yeah.  Just tell me one thing.”  Nat flips down the unruly corner of Steve’s collar, then trails her palm down his chest.  “Why’re you doing this?”

“Because…”  Steve hesitates.  “He’s my friend.”

“Steve.”  Nat draws out his name.  She cocks her head.

Steve sighs.  He closes his eyes, and his cheeks somehow flush and pale at the same time.  “He’s my  _ friend _ .  I’m...I’m with him till the end of the line.”  

Nat smiles.  “Ok.”

“I _ — _ ” Steve bites his lip.  “Don’t tell anyone that.”

“Don’t tell anyone I’m hooking you up.”  She turns on her heel. “Thanks for the joe.”

“I’m, ok, yeah.”  Steve seems to be having a hard time putting on an appropriate facial expression.

“That means coffee.”

Finally he smiles.  “I know.”

“Good.  Remember, I’m not teaching you everything.”  Nat heads for the door. She doesn’t look back until she’s across the street.  

“Here.”  Clint shoves Nat’s sign at her.  “This is fucking heavy.”

“You’re a fucking pansy.”  Nat keeps walking. “I got an errand to run.”


	6. Steve

It’s only when Bucky’s asleep on the couch again that Steve can breathe easy.  He’d hovered just outside the kitchen while Bucky fussed with spoons and needles over the stove, but he couldn’t bear to watch him strip and find a vein.  

“Here,” he’d sighed, taking the syringe and leading Bucky to the living room.  “I’ll do it.”

Steve still feels the weight of the drug in his fingers, re-crystalizing from liquid back to solid guilt.  He can’t quite believe what he’s done. But he also can’t imagine doing anything else.

Steve stows the little bag of what remains of the white powder in his pocket.  He wonders how many doses are left. Two? Three? He’d cautioned Bucky to only take a little, just enough to take the edge off his pain.  Steve’s left in the dark, though. He has no way to check. He should be a good friend and trust Bucky’s judgement. But a good friend wouldn’t be giving him the drugs.

The change in Bucky is immediate and positive, and it doesn’t take much to restore Steve’s faith.  Bucky had reached out as Steve pulled the needle from his skin and brushed his fingertips over Steve’s knee.  The gesture was sloppy, but tender. He’d smiled. 

‘ _ Cause he’s high _ , Steve tells himself.  _  Not ‘cause he loves you. _

He stands beside the couch for a few minutes more, watching Bucky’s ribs expand and contract.  It’s more even than it was during his earlier naps, and his breath comes with only the faintest trace of a wheeze.  Listening to it is soothing. 

Eventually Steve tears himself away.  He retires to his bedroom and sits in his desk chair.  He’s behind in his art. There are more blank pages than finished pieces in his folder, and even though deadlines are fast approaching, he barely has the motivation to lift the cover of his monogrammed portfolio.  

The drawing of the soldier is on top.  Bucky’s eyes stare up at Steve from the page.  It’s a happier Bucky. A four-years-younger Bucky, with freshly shorn hair and enthusiasm to serve.  Or at least as much enthusiasm as he could have, knowing where he was headed. He’s the same young man as the one doped up and deeply asleep out in the living room.  But the more Steve thinks about it, the more he wonders how similar they are after all. 

Steve opens the bottom drawer of the desk.  He paws through a few years’ worth of crumpled papers before he finds what he’s looking for.  The heavy book still smells like cigarettes and ink as Steve flips through it. There they are.  The class of 1963.

The individual pictures are first.  Bucky’s early in the alphabet, and he grins cheekily from under the mortarboard perched on his head.  His cheeks are still round from summer, proving the picture was taken before he got back into football shape.  Which ended up being nothing compared to boot camp shape. And it’s a stark contrast to the downright skinny frame he sports now.

Steve turns the page.  He finds himself much further down the list, looking a little weedier perhaps, but it’s the same face he sees in the mirror every day.  How could he remain static when Bucky changed so much? 

The whole country’s changed.  The high school has a  _ Students for Peace _ banner affixed to its outer wall now, but there’s hardly a trace of the war in the candid shots at the back of Steve’s yearbook.  It’s all carnivals and sports and dances. Things kids are supposed to worry about. Not things like life and death and communism.

Steve vaguely remembers which pictures they appear in, and he skims past most of senior year before he finds what he’s looking for.  He doesn’t need to see another image of Bucky hamming it up with the other student athletes or one of himself typing articles for the school paper.

The ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of Steve’s mouth as soon as he sees it.  The snapshot’s from a pep rally, and, as far as he knows, it’s the only picture ever taken of them together.  They’re sitting on the hood of Bucky’s car, their shoulders puffed out in matching letterman jackets. Bucky’s arm is around Steve’s neck, one tick away from a half-nelson.  They look like two friends messing around. But a moment before, the touch was tender. Even in the grainy photo, their mad grins are visible. Steve feels the giddiness all over again, the spark of school spirit combined with the thrill of almost being caught.

Steve wonders what happened to that.  He wonders what happened to the car. 

But the answer’s simple enough.  The war happened. Bucky and tens of thousands of other young men went to a place they should never have been, seeing things they should never have to have seen.  Steve’s heard they’re pulling them out of colleges now. And high schools. 

Steve’s room is suddenly too quiet.  He tries to be glad that at least Bucky got to finish that chapter of his life uninterrupted.  But now that he’s alone, it’s hard for Steve to dredge up any emotion but sadness. It’s hard for him to dredge up any emotion at all.

 

 

When morning comes, Steve creeps down the hallway. He pauses, back flat to the wall, and peers around the corner into the living room. He doesn’t know what he’s afraid of. They’ve been in this situation before: Bucky sleeping off a few too many beers and Steve pretending to be the responsible one. But no matter now familiar things feel, this is different. Considering what he did last night, though, waking Bucky for breakfast should be easy.

Steve isn’t sure whether he should be quiet or loud. Are people paranoid when they come down from a heroin high? Or are the jumpy guys who pass through the shelter nervous because of something else?

Steve splits the difference and tiptoes past Bucky’s sleeping form, then deliberately hits the kettle against the faucet as he fills it with water.

“Huh?” The couch cushions creak, and blankets fall to the floor.

“Sorry!” Steve says quickly. “Sorry. It’s nothing. Just the kettle.” He turns off the water and sets it on the stove. “You want some coffee?”

Steve instantly regrets asking. He’s positive Bucky’s stomach won’t be up to it. But he moves to stand in the kitchen doorway to wait for a response.

Bucky tips his ear toward his shoulder. He blinks at the floor, then looks up at Steve. “You make shitty coffee.”

Steve laughs. “Hey. Some people like instant.”

“Ugh.” Bucky makes a face. “You should’ve learned how to make it for real. It’s been long enough.” He holds Steve’s gaze for a second too long.

“It has, hasn’t it?” A strange sense of deja vu laps at Steve’s chest, as if what’s already happened should also be what happens next. Bucky sleeps it off. Steve patches him up with runny eggs and hot drinks. He forces himself out of the memory. “What do you think you’re up for? Water? Toast?”

Bucky looks at him blankly. Steve quickly backtracks. “I mean, I have other stuff. This isn’t, like…” He doesn’t know what he wants to say. Prison? The hospital? “I just don’t want you to get sick again.”

“Oh.” Bucky’s monosyllabic responses make Steve want to rush to his side and usher him along, eager to provide fixes to yet unarticulated problems. But he’s learned enough at the shelter to know that anything above the bare minimum is rarely welcome.

“How ‘bout you come sit in here, and you can tell me what sounds good.” Steve can be patient.

The kettle boils, and he’s forced to turn his back. He’s sticking bread in the toaster when he hears Bucky shuffle up behind him. “You still have it,” he mumbles.

“What?” Steve looks over his shoulder.

Bucky nods at the kitchen table and matching chairs, spindle-legged and an ugly shade of chartreuse.

“Yeah,” Steve laughs. “I was all set to repaint ‘em after ma died, but, uh. You know. Never got around to it.” Steve wonders if Bucky remembers. They’d gone so far as picking up the paint from the hardware store, but before they got to work, Steve had checked the mail. And Bucky had decided he’d rather spend the night at home.

“Oh.” Steve can’t tell what emotion lies behind the small sound, or if there even is any.

“Here, sit down.” Steve pulls out a chair. “Toast?”

“Um.” Bucky sits gingerly. “I guess?”

“Good.” Steve reaches into the cupboard for plates. “How’re you feeling?”.

“I, uh… ok,” Bucky says. “Ok, I think.”

“Well.” Steve watches the toaster tick through the last few seconds, then quickly removes the slices before they can burn his fingers. “That’s an improvement. Right?” He carries the food to the table. He stops to palm Bucky’s forehead before he goes back for the butter dish. “I think your fever’s gone down.”

“Hm.” Bucky leans close to the table. At first Steve’s elated that he has an appetite, but Bucky just rests his elbow beside his plate and his head in his hand. He looks sideways at Steve. “Can I...um. Have another hit?”

Steve should’ve been expecting this. “If you think you need it,” he says carefully. “If you eat.” The words feel all wrong in Steve’s mouth. He doesn’t want to fall into the role of parent. So he grins and adds, “And if you shower.”

One side of Bucky’s mouth lifts. “You saying I smell?”

“Um.” Steve decides to go with honesty. “Yeah.”

“Well…” Bucky’s brows knit together. “Maybe...maybe you just keep your house too clean.” It’s not funny, but the fact that he tried for a humorous comeback warms Steve from the inside out.

“Maybe I do,” he laughs. Steve spreads butter on his toast. Then he points the knife to Bucky’s plate. “Butter?”

“Nah.” Bucky bites off a crispy corner. He chews a few times with his mouth open, then works to swallow. He sets the slice down again. After a moment, he inches his fingers toward the butter dish.

“Go ahead,” Steve encourages through is own mouthful.

Bucky wraps his hand around the knife and poises it above the creamy block. He’s trembling too much, though, and the cut misses its target. The knife pings against the dish, and the whole thing scoots across the tabletop. Bucky huffs out a breath of disappointment.

“Here, I can do it,” Steve offers.

“No!” Bucky’s face contorts in rage. His grip on the knife changes with lightning speed. He holds it at shoulder height, the point down and ready to strike.

Steve sits stock-still, his instincts silently raging in self-contradiction. He can’t defend himself. Not against Bucky.

But he doesn’t have to. Bucky blinks. He deflates, his shoulders caving inward. He releases the knife; it clatters to the tabletop an inch from Steve’s hand. He hardly dares to breathe.

Bucky pushes his chair back. He stands up with difficulty, shoving off the wall on his way to the hallway.

“D’you...need help?” Steve calls after him.

“No.” Steve barely hears the answer. Then he pretends he can’t hear Bucky in the bathroom gagging.


	7. James

Bucky stands under the shower spray, trying to wrap his head around the experience.  On the streets he hadn’t washed at all. In the hospital it had been sponge baths. And before that...he doesn’t quite remember.  Field showers seem to have been a thing, but they’re a far cry from indoor plumbing.

“Bucky?”  Steve taps on the bathroom door, then opens it a crack.  

Bucky jumps at the sound and braces himself against the tile, momentarily struggling to maintain his footing.

“Hm?”  He can’t hear himself over the sound of water hitting the bottom of the tub.  There’s no way Steve’s going to hear him.

“I have to leave for work,” Steve calls.  “So, if you need another, uh, dose…”

“Coming,” Bucky says.  

If the army was good for one thing, it was lighting a fire under him.  Figuratively and literally. Hurrying takes on new importance when it can mean the difference between being rescued and being abandoned.  And with the pain creeping back into Bucky’s bones, he definitely wants to be rescued.

He hastily dries off, then limps to the kitchen to cook the scag with a towel still around his waist.  Nudity is second nature now. Yet another bonus from the army. But Bucky doesn’t need to hide from Steve anyway.  Not even when he catches him watching the white terry cloth slipping down Bucky’s ass. 

Bucky’s still thinking about it while Steve shoots him up and rubs more ointment on his wounds.  Then Bucky blinks, and he’s gone. He thinks Steve stroked his hair first. But his ability to make memories fades an instant before his consciousness.   

Bucky hears the ticking first.  A gun preparing to fire. He opens his eyes.  

But it’s just the clock.  1305, he translates automatically.  Early afternoon. 

There’s a note on the side table.  His orders, probably. But the handwriting’s too neat.  And the words don’t read like orders. There are clothes in the bedroom and food in the fridge.  Signed Steve. And a smiley face.

Bucky isn’t hungry.  He’s tired in the way that probably means his cells need energy, but he can wait a while longer.  His head and his stomach still hurt. 

He’s not too dizzy to stand, though, so Bucky pads down the hall.  He remembers the layout of the house, though it’s been years since he’s traced the path to Steve’s bedroom.  He remembers bits and pieces of what they used to do in there, too. 

Bucky opens the dresser drawers, his thoughts scattering as he looks down at the folded clothes.  The hospital had given him a wardrobe of mixed uniform and sweatsuit in shades of drab green and grey.  Steve has pants in blue denim and khaki, shirts in white cotton, sweaters in soft knit red. 

Of course he does.  It’s what Steve wore in high school.  It’s what Bucky wore in high school, too, now that he thinks about it.  It almost surprises him to remember he didn’t always wear fatigues. 

Bucky struggles with the zipper on a pair of jeans.  The waistband hangs loosely around his hips, but he covers it up with the hem of a t-shirt.  He walks back through the house, unsure of what he wants to do. His head hasn’t been this clear in a while, and the sensation is jarring. 

He sees his camouflage jacket hanging on the coat rack beside the front door.  He used to wear a leather one, he suddenly recalls. Steve said it made him look like a greaser.  Bucky said it made him look tough. Bucky wishes he still had it, but for more utilitarian reasons.  It has to have been warmer than the frayed cotton he’s stuck with now.

Bucky puts on the overcoat anyway, then steps outside.  Instinct vectors him out of the neighborhood, and within a few minutes he’s ambling along the main drive, squinting in the sun.  He reads the street signs as he passes them. 

_ Fourth street. _  That means the movie theater.  

_ Fifth street. _  That means the shelter.  Which means Steve. Bucky quickens his pace past the corner.  Steve hadn’t told him to stay in the house. And even if he had, Steve’s not the boss of him.  But Bucky would rather keep his distance anyway. 

_ Sixth street. _  That’s where the tie-dye hippies hang out and smoke weed.  

“Hey!  J.B.!” Something white flutters in the dark space beneath a stairwell.  Bucky’s not sure what he’s looking at. A flag, maybe. But then he sees the hand, the arm, and the face, and the long linen sleeve makes sense.

“Hey,” Bucky grunts.  

“Where you been?  You didn’t have to get all spiffed up for me,” the young woman giggles.  

“Not out to impress you,” Bucky says, searching the annals of his mind for her name.  “Darcy.”

“You wanna toke?  We just got fresh stuff.”

“Nah, I’m just takin’ a walk.”

“Come on.”  Darcy snatches a stubby joint from the red-haired woman enjoying the shade beside her.  

“Hey!  What the fuck?” she protests.

“Shut up, Nat, I’m just sharing.”  Darcy takes a puff. “Serves you right.”  She holds the rolled cigarette out to Bucky.  

It won’t do him any harm.  No more than he’s already caused himself.  Bucky takes it and drags on it. He holds the smoke in for a moment, then slowly exhales.  He passes it back and sinks to his knees as dreamy dizziness begins to spread out from his chest.  Either the weed is strong, or his tolerance is getting low.

Bucky leans back against the wall.  Darcy snuggles into his arm, and he slips it around her shoulders.  It’s not unpleasant. He used to do this. But not with her. Not with girls.  Melancholy mixes with the burned grass taste in Bucky’s throat. He closes his eyes and focuses on the warmth of her body.

Bucky doesn’t fall asleep, but Darcy does.  Her head is heavy against his sternum, and his entire body itches to move.  Bucky slides his arm out from behind her and pushes her the other way, propping her up against Nat.  Then he crawls out from under the stairs and gets to his feet. 

The sun’s lower in the sky, yet it’s still afternoon.  Bucky isn’t sure when Steve will get home. But he needs to make it back to camp before dark.

He’s still on Sixth street.  Bucky slips between two buildings and zig-zags through the alleys, looking over his shoulder every so often to be sure he’s not followed.  He doesn’t need the street signs to know he’s crossing Seventh and Eighth, then turning 90 degrees and running parallel to Live Oak. 

There’s a puddle of water in the middle of the dusty pavement.  Bucky stops short, wondering if it’s infested with leeches like the muddy lakes between Saigon and Hanoi.  But this body of water is two inches deep at best. He’s safe. Bucky steps in it. He’s still relieved when the ripples stop at the toe of his boot instead of splashing up to mid-chest.

Two more turns, and he’s found what he’s looking for.  The little hideout he made of broken-down cardboard boxes, set against the wall of an old warehouse.  Days are hard to keep track of, but Bucky knows it’s been a while since he stopped by. Long enough that nothing is probably where he left it.

The walls of his lean-to are flat on the ground, knocked over by the wind or an eager looter.  His spare socks and his spoon are gone. His lighter is gone. But the upside-down milk crate is still there.  And it’s what’s under it that really counts. 

Bucky looks behind him again before he lifts it and swiftly tucks the pistol into his waistband.  It won’t stay in the loose top of his jeans, so he secures it under the elastic of his underwear. That’s better.  It’s an odd comfort to feel the coldness of the metal against his skin, even though painful goosebumps break out in the places it touches.

The walk back takes half the time as the walk there.  Bucky keeps his head on a swivel, but ensures his movements are subtle.  Part of the mission is not drawing attention to himself. Once he’s in the neighborhood again, he slows his pace.  If anyone looks out their windows, he’s just another guy. Another grunt. With the empty sleeve of his jacket secured in his pocket, no one need know he came home less than intact.  

Bucky retraces his footsteps up the crumbling driveway, then lets himself in the front door.  He hangs up his jacket and turns to survey the entryway. Where can he put it? Where will he be able to find it, but Steve won’t?  

Not here.  Not the living room.  Not the bedroom or the kitchen.  

It might’ve been better to just leave it where it was.  But then greedy hands would’ve eventually found it and run off with it, just as they did with his other worldly possessions.  Bucky doesn’t like the idea of someone else holding his belongings and calling them their own. The army doesn’t allow stealing, not even from the enemy.  He’d bought his things at the PX with a pocketful of change. 

That’s not right.  He made the purchases after he came back stateside.  Here they’re called five-and-dimes.

The gun starts to slip in the hollow bowl between Bucky’s hip bones.  He’ll have to put it outside. He’ll bury it and cover it in leaves so it can lie in wait until he’s sure the coast is clear.  

Bucky crosses to the back door and lets himself out onto the patio.  He remembers being out here. It was summer. He was pretending to water the grass and really chasing Steve around with the garden hose.  

The hose in question sits in coils like a dusty green snake beside a wicker chair.  Bucky treads carefully. If it wakes, if it bites him, he’s dead. But that might not be a bad way to go.  

There’s a creak and a slam and someone calling his name.  Steve’s home, and his plans are foiled. No time to wait for his superiors to provide revised orders.  

Bucky looks around frantically one last time.  There’s a sun-bleached cushion in the seat of the chair.  It’s his only option. Bucky lifts it and sets the gun in the space beneath.  He hastily puts it back as he found it, then turns the opposite way.

“Hey, Buck.”  The screen door opens, and Steve steps out onto the porch.  “What’cha doing out here?”

Bucky shrugs.  He tries to think of something to relay, preferably something that actually happened today.  Toking under the stairs pops up in his shallow bank of recent memories. 

“Taking a smoke break.”  He looks at Steve, hoping he can maintain control over the muscles in his face.  He can’t turn around. He has to stay still. “You got any?”

“Sure.”  Steve takes the red and white pack from his pocket and hands one over.  He sniffs the air as he leans closer to Bucky. “You smell like weed.”

“Like I said.  Smoke break.” Bucky puts the cigarette between his lips.  Something moves in the shadows of his mind, and his chest feels tight.  The words float from his mouth before he thinks them through. “You aren’t supposed to have these…”  He trails off as Steve offers him a light. It’s a dangerous mistake; the information could be classified.

“Yeah, they’re mostly for sharing these days.”  Steve flicks his lighter shut. Bucky winces at the  metal-on-metal sound.

“But, you remember.”  Steve beams and waves at the cloud of smoke with his hand.  “That’s good.”

“It makes you c _ — _ ” Bucky starts.  

Steve lifts the collar of his shirt to stifle a hack.  He catches Bucky’s eye, and it turns to a laugh. 

“Yeah.  That,” Bucky says.  He wants to let loose and laugh too, but he still feels caught.  He hasn’t made any critical errors, but he still needs to check. He needs to see if it’s completely hidden.  Good camouflage can be the difference between life and death. The enemy could walk by at any moment.

“I’m glad you’re up on your feet,” Steve says.  “Getting some fresh air.” He watches Bucky blow out a lungful of smoke.  “Well, polluted air.”

“Hm.”

“Wanna go for a walk?  The diner still does peach milkshakes.  We could share one, like back in the old days,” Steve suggests.  

Bucky has to control the expression on his face.  The drill sergeant will shout at him if he smiles, hit him if he turns around.

“Do you remember that?”

Always answer if you’re asked a direct question.  Otherwise, stay silent. Bucky slowly shakes his head.  He doesn’t see the grassy backyard anymore, or the fields he jogged through in basic.  All he sees are rice paddies. 

“That’s ok,” Steve says.  “We could walk up to the grocery store instead.  They have peaches there, too. And I think plums are in season.”

Bucky’s head begins a renewed throb.  A couple of much-younger boys sit on the stoop, eating stone fruits until their faces are sticky, then throw the pits over the fence.  The straw hat girls set their baskets by the side of the road, offering overripe mangoes and warm cokes in exchange for a C-Ration or a kiss on the cheek.

“I don’t like fruit,” Bucky says.

“Ok.”  Steve’s disappointed.  

Bucky wants to tell him he’s sorry, but saying it won’t do any good.  He finishes his cigarette, then drops the smoldering butt and grinds it out with his shoe.  He turns to go back inside and hazards a quick glance at the wicker chair. The cushion’s perfectly in place.  Nothing is amiss here.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many units decorated their aircraft and ground transport with graffiti or “nose art” representing their mascots or nicknames. Though most specific records are lost to time, the art in this chapter reflects the moniker inscribed on a real vehicle utilized during the Vietnam War.
> 
> C-Rations, also called MCIs for Meal, Combat, Individual, were the canned and pre-packaged food rations issued to soldiers before the Armed Forces transitioned to Meals, Ready-to-Eat (MREs) in 1980.


	8. Steve

Steve tells Sam he’s going to start the dishes, but he passes through the kitchen and props open the back door.  He leans one shoulder against the frame and looks out on the alley crowded with trash cans and broken-down pallets.  He reaches into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. The plastic baggie of Bucky’s _—_ Steve forces himself to think of it as _medication_ _—_ comes with it and tumbles down between his feet.

“Hoo, boy.  I hope you’re not shooting up in that kitchen.”

Steve starts and quickly bends to pick it up.  His heart thuds against his ribs as a flush of embarrassment reaches his cheeks.  He shoves the bag deep into his pocket, pointedly not looking at the man sitting in the space between the dumpster and the wall.

“Hey, Nick,” Steve says, shakily sticking a cigarette between his lips.  He still craves the smoke, although now it probably has no chance of doing its job and calming him down.  “Didn’t see you there.”

“I’m in the business of seeing, not being seen.”  Nick adjusts his eye patch and laughs.

“You could go sit out front, if you want,” Steve says.  “There’s more shade. And you’d be first in line for dinner.”  Nick’s one of the regulars. Steve likes him, and Nick knows it.  It means there will always be a seat at the table for him, no matter where he is in line.

“Nah.  Those hippie kids are singing again.  I’m a man who values peace and quiet.”  He pauses for a second. A slightly out-of-tune guitar melody carries from across the street.  “Maybe a little more toward the quiet.”

Steve smiles and lights his cigarette.  He takes a puff and immediately begins to cough.

“Back to the point,” Nick says.  “You ain’t supposed to be doing that.”  He nods at the smoke in Steve’s hand. “So what’ch you doing with that?”  He gazes pointedly at Steve’s pocket.

“It’s not mine,” Steve rasps.  

Nick raises his brows.

“I know, I know,” Steve says before Nick has a chance to open his mouth again.  “It’s just, my buddy just came home, and _ — _ ”

“He’s on the China white, and you're gonna patch him up?”  Nick finishes with a snicker.

“Well, yeah,” Steve says lamely.  “It’s not funny.”

“Boy…”  Nick shakes his head.  “The dope ain’t his problem.  That’s him trying to fix it. You take that away, the demon’s still gonna be there.”

“Yeah…”  Steve sighs.  “But he’s still in there too.”  He coughs again and taps out the cigarette.

***

Steve leaves the shelter as soon as the last man in the dinner line fills his tray.  The sun’s barely dipping toward the horizon, but Bucky’s been alone long enough. 

Steve doesn’t want to worry about him, but he does anyway.  It’s the little things that get to him. The tremors, the continued reluctance to eat, the whiff of cannabis he’d caught yesterday…

Steve pats his pocket.  He hopes he’s doing the right thing.  That continuing to administer small, measured doses will keep Bucky from searching out something else somewhere else.

_ He’s not yours, though, _ Steve thinks.   _ You can’t keep him from doing what he wants. _  The logic does nothing for his determination, and it barely keeps him from crossing the line toward desperation.

Steve takes the route home at a jog.  A thin sheen of sweat gathers on his brow.  He wipes it with the back of his hand as he unlocks the door.  A cold beer would be nice. Or a coke. Steve wonders if Bucky still likes them.

“Hey, Buck,” he calls.  “I’m home.”

There’s no answer.  The house seems to be empty.  

“Bucky?”  Steve makes a circuit, peering into his bedroom and the bathroom before padding back to the kitchen.  

Just because he’s not in the house doesn’t mean Bucky’s not around.  Maybe he’s out for a walk. It’s stupid to expect him to stay in the house all day.  And it means he’s probably feeling better. 

Steve gets a glass from the cabinet.  He’s about to fill it at the sink when he sees movement through the window.  Relief floods him when he recognizes Bucky’s silhouette, then a feeling of abject stupidity that he didn’t think to check the yard.  

_ Relax _ , Steve thinks to himself.   _ Quit working yourself up. _

He pulls back the curtain, fully intending to tap on the windowpane and wave and grin like a fool, but he stops.  Blinks. Then he lets the glass smash in the bottom of the sink as he rushes for the back door.

Bucky stands with his back to Steve, looking out over the lawn.  His shoulders tremble ever so slightly. But the hand holding the gun to his head is steady.

“Oh my god.  Buck.” Steve stops a few paces behind him.  

“Don’t,” Bucky says in a choked whisper.  

“Ok.”  Steve lifts his hands.  He edges sideways so he can see Bucky’s face, but he doesn’t move any closer.  “I won’t.”

“I can’t do this anymore.”  Bucky’s breath comes in hollow gasps .  He looks clammy and grimy again.

“But you only just got back,” Steve says.  “And you’re strong. You made it home. A lot of guys didn’t.  Guys with shorter tours, too.” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, popping up before Steve can remember the poster of motivational phrases tacked to the wall in his office.  A fresh wave of panic hits when he realizes he doesn’t recall a single line. He resorts to praying Bucky takes it well.

“I envy them,” Bucky says.  He over-enunciates the words.  His eyes flash with something Steve doesn’t recognize.  

“Bucky.  Bucky, please.  I can’t imagine everything you went through over there.”  There’s so much Steve doesn’t know. It’s enough to fill an ocean, and if he’s not careful, he’s going to drown in it.  “But they show it on the news sometimes, and it’s bad. I know it’s bad. No one should have to _ — _ ”

“They don’t show you everything,” Bucky scoffs.  “They ever talk about Winter Force on the news?”

Steve slowly shakes his head.  Should he answer? Is that the right thing to do?  But the rattle of Bucky’s uneven breath stops as he waits for Steve to speak.

“No,” Steve finally says.  “I don’t think I’ve heard them mention it.”

“That’s ‘cause they don’t want you to hear about it.  Technically it doesn’t exist. But…” Bucky swallows. The gun slips an inch or so, and he jams it back up.  The muzzle disappears into his hair. “We got good at what we did.”

“Whatever it was, Buck,” Steve says.  “I don’t care. Terrible things happen in war.  It wasn’t your fault. The guys in charge, your commander _ — _ ”

“First Sergeant Pierce.”  Bucky spits the name. “He gave the orders.  But I followed them. I...I  _ chose _ to…”

“You didn’t have a choice.  There couldn’t have been another option.”

“He wouldn’t’ve followed protocol for discipline.  I would’ve been shot. And fuck, Stevie, I wish he had.”  Bucky’s voice breaks, and his face crumples as emotion hits.  “I wish he fucking had. That would’ve been better than...than…”

“No, Buck, that would’ve been…”  Steve trails off.. “I would’ve lost you.  You were already gone practically four years _ — _ ”

Bucky cuts him off again.  “You know what it’s like to do fucking covert ops for four goddamn years?”  His chest heaves, and the gun begins to shake in his hand. “It was good. For one day.  Till we found out what they wanted us to do.”

Steve has to ask.  He doesn’t want the answer, and knows Bucky doesn’t want to tell him.  But whatever it is, it sits like shrapnel in a festering wound. He has to get it out.  Of that Steve’s sure. 

“What did they want you to do, Buck?” he asks weakly.

“Assassinate important people.  In the Viet Cong. We’d hide out in the jungle.  Move over enemy lines. Then shoot ‘em.” Bucky lets out a singular  _ ha _ of humorless laughter.  “That’s what they told us.”

“What they told you?”  Steve repeats. Bucky hasn’t even dropped the figurative bomb yet, and Steve already feels like he’s been hit with a real one.  He makes himself breathe through the crushing sensation spreading across his chest. He regrets this morning’s cigarette and every other mindless indulgence that’s stolen his strength.  Strength he should’ve been saving for Bucky. 

“Yeah.”  Bucky licks his lips.  “Real mission was...was gun down as many fucking gooks as possible.  Whoever Pierce said. It was like a game for him.” Bucky’s voice goes quieter.  “But not for us.”

“Buck, I’m sorry.  Nobody deserves to have to do that.  That’s a misuse of power, that’s a, a…” Steve searches for the right word to describe the crime.  

“But I went along with it, don’t you see?”  Bucky’s shouting now, spit flying from his lips.  His fingers tighten around the gun and inch toward the trigger.  “We bombed villages. With farms, with, with people! The mission reports had ‘em down as commies, but they were just old people who lived on the wrong side of a line.”  Bucky sniffs angrily. “Sometimes not even over the line. Just too close to it.”

Steve still doesn’t have words, and even if he did, there’s not enough air in his lungs to carry them.  He’s glad Bucky keeps talking, though it sickens him to know there’s more.

“There was one time...one  time Pierce said we were after a group who’d killed a hundred Americans.   And it turned out to be fucking kids on bikes…” A guttural noise comes from Bucky’s throat.  “ I did it, Steve. I fucking did it. I killed _ — _ ”

Steve can’t take it anymore.  He finds his breath and forces his voice over Bucky’s.   “I don’t care, Buck. It was war. It was an impossible situation.”

“You don’t care?” Bucky asks incredulously.  

“No!  Whatever you did, you’re still you.”

“No, I’m not.”  Tears spill from the corners of Bucky’s eyes.  “Or maybe I am. Don’t you fucking see? I did that shit.  And that shit did things to me. I prayed when that bomb hit that I’d close my eyes and never wake up.  But then I did. Half the time I can’t remember what my own ma looks like, but I’m never gonna forget how wide that little girl’s eyes were when I put the crosshairs on her goddamn forehead…”

“You’re still a good person, Buck.”  Steve rides his momentum and throws caution to the wind.  “Don’t kill yourself. You don’t need to do that.”

“I’m already dead, Steve.”  Bucky laughs again, and this time he doesn’t stop.  It’s a stitch away from hysteria. “I’ve killed a lot of people.  There’s none of me left.”

“That’s not true.”

“I still woke up after the bomb.  I still wake up every time I shoot up,” Bucky says.  “Not that I fucking want to.”

“Buck,” Steve whines.  But reasoning is getting him nowhere.  He’s sinking again, clawing for anything he use to remain afloat.  “Fine. I don’t want you to die. Put the gun down. Do it for me. For...for us.”

“That’s…  There isn’t any _ us _ .” Bucky shakes his head.  “Not anymore. And...” He swallows.  “I don’t remember. There’re blanks. It’s all blanks.  And in them I just keep seeing dark.”

“I’ll do anything.  Please, Buck. I’ll help you remember.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna remember.”  Bucky’s finger twitches. 

The motion triggers a fresh flood of panic in Steve’s veins.  It drags him toward hopelessness for a split second, then everything turns to fire. 

“Ok, fine.  I’ll leave. I’ll pack up my things, and…”  Steve’s voice gives out, but the seething red anger doesn’t fade.  “Or you could. You don’t have to stay here.”

“That’s what I’m doing.”  Bucky squeezes his eyes shut.  “I’m sorry, Stevie. I really am.” 

His index finger moves in slow motion.

Steve lunges at him.  He feels his fingers encircle Bucky’s bony wrist, then the weak counterpressure as he pushes the gun down along with the hand that holds it.  There are fewer vital organs around waist-height, but it’s still pointing somewhere. Steve can barely see. His heart thrums too loudly. Time stops completely.

Then the gun goes off.

 


	9. Sam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The drawing of T'Challa in this chapter is by @gershel-draws (tumblr).
> 
> The drawing of the protest was done by the author.

“Bye, Mama,” Sam says, stuffing a muffin into his mouth and grabbing his keys.  “See you tonight.”

“Hold up, baby.”  His mother looks up from the eggs and bacon in the frying pan.  “You don’t think I’m making all this up for myself, do you?”

“I’m gonna be late.”

“So be late.”  She loads up a plate and hands it to him.  “You don’t ever seem to have breakfast with me anymore.”  

“I work the morning shift now,” Sam says, swallowing the rest of his muffin and reluctantly taking a seat at the table.  

“You don’t seem to be home for dinner so much, either.”  His mother raises her eyebrows and sets down her own plate.  

“Yeah, I know,” Sam sighs.  “I’ve been covering shifts, picking up odd jobs.”  He smiles. “Somebody’s gotta take care of you.”

“You haven’t been going to meetings, have you?”  Sam’s mother peers over her glasses at him. “You know I worry about you getting involved in crowds like that.  I’m not losing another son.”

“I don’t do that anymore,” Sam says.  “I don’t got time for it.” He inhales a slice of bacon and looks at his watch.  “Speaking of which. I really am late.”

“Come home for dinner tonight,” his mother says, the subtle shift in her tone negating any possibility for negotiations.  “I want to rake leaves at the cemetery. I could use strong hands like yours.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam says.  He takes his plate to the sink and kisses his mother on the cheek.  “I’ll see you later.”

He sprints out the door and jumps into his car.  

***

Sam pushes the bristles of the broom into the floor, trying to channel his anger into the after-dinner sweeping.  It’s not working out so well, though. The clods of dust and stray bits of food didn’t do anything to him. It’s Steve who’d cut out early again, and Sam has a feeling he knows why.  If it happens one more time he’ll say something to him. He can’t keep saddling Sam with all the work and promise to make it up later. Later never comes. It always seems to still be the present.  

But will he really start a fight?  Is his own displeasure with his schedule really worth disrupting their good work?  And is it even his place to judge? If his always-overextended friend is dedicating himself to a singular cause, one that seems to make him happy, should he really take that away from him?  

If he’s honest with himself, Sam would probably do the same thing if he could.  He’s no better than Steve. Just maybe better at prioritizing.

Sam’s thoughts scatter when the phone rings.  “Fifth Street Soup Kitchen,” he says. He holds the receiver between his shoulder and ear and stretches the cord as far as it will go.  He’s about to see if he can bend down for the dustpan without pulling the phone out of the wall, but the voice on the other end of the line makes him stop in his tracks.

“Sam.  I—you have to come.  He’s…” Through the static and spit-talking, Steve’s panic is plain.  

“Ok, man, slow down.”  Sam says. He leans the broom against the wall. “What happened?”

“I—he—oh my god, there’s so much blood.”

“Steve.”  Sam puts on his no-nonsense voice, grateful for the upbringing that’s allowed him to both command and accept discipline.  “Stop. Tell me what happened.”

“He, oh fuck.  He shot himself.”  Steve’s voice is hallway to a wheeze.

That confirms Steve still has a houseguest.  But the fact barely registers. Sam jumps to action.  “So call an ambulance. Put something on the wound and get him to the hospital.”  

“I can’t,” Steve says.  “He—he won’t. He’s already fighting me.”

“Steve, this is bigger than you, man.  If he’s hurt that bad, he needs a doctor.”

“Oh god,” Steve’s breath hitches.  He needs to get that under control, or there’ll be two of them needing the hospital.  “If we don’t do something, he’s gonna die, Sam. And I think he wants to. If he goes back there, he’s gonna give up.”

“Man,” Sam lets out his breath.  He can’t fall into this trap. He can’t make every case personal.  

For a moment, he’s torn.  He’s stayed late all week, pulling favors for Steve that keep him there well past dark.  It’s not fair to Sam. It’s not fair to his mother. She needn’t fear losing him to violence at home or abroad.  He’ll just be stuck at work.

Then everything slides back into balance.  Sam may not know this man from Adam, but he’s still important.  Steve doesn’t deserve to lose a friend. And some mother, somewhere, doesn’t deserve to lose a son.   “I’ll see what I can do, ok?”

“I owe you, man, I—thanks,” Steve blubbers.

“Shut up,” Sam says.  Then, “Put pressure on that wound.”  

He hangs up and takes a second to collect himself.  “Yo, Scotty!” he shouts.

“Huh?”  The slim dark-haired man sticks his head through the kitchen door.

“I gotta do something.  Make some calls. You good by yourself for a while?”

It starts to rain as Sam pulls away from the curb in front of the dingy apartment building.  He merges into traffic, then squeals through a yellow light.

“So.  You don’t come to meetings anymore.  You don’t wear the uniform anymore. I almost think you’ve forgotten the mission.”  T’Challa leans toward the dashboard. “And you’re speeding.”

“I didn’t think you were so concerned about breaking the law,” Sam replies.  

“Not all laws need to be broken.”

“This one does.”  Sam barely taps the brakes as he turns into the neighborhood.  “A man’s dying.”

T’Challa pauses.  “A white man.”

“A man, man,” Sam says.

“A soldier of a foreign war.  Like the men you serve every day, giving them precedence over your own brothers.”

“I could kick you out of this car,” Sam says, sparing T’Challa a glance before he skids into Steve’s driveway.  

“But you won’t.”

“But I won’t,” Sam agrees.  “We’re already here. A dude’s dying.”  He opens his door. “And I serve food to anyone who damn well needs it.”

T’Challa pops the collar of his leather jacket and throws his bag over his shoulder.  

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”  Sam shakes his head and leads him to the front door.  He bangs on it a couple times, then turns the knob. “Hey, Steve!” he calls as he steps inside.

“Over here,” Steve’s shaky voice replies.  He sits on his knees on the kitchen floor, clutching a bloody towel and bending over a crumpled figure.  Sam recognizes the man from the incident in the food line a few days ago, but his skin’s taken on a ghostly pallor.

“Is he conscious?” Sam asks.

Steve nods.  “Barely.” He shifts the towel, revealing the ragged edge of a wound visible through a hole in the man’s blood-soaked shirt.

“This is T’Challa,” Sam says.  T’Challa’s already squatting beside the patient.  “He’s a friend.”

Steve quickly looks from T’Challa’s face down to the panther insignia on his jacket.  “His name’s Bucky,”

“Can you hear me…?  Is Bucky your real name?” T’Challa asks.

Bucky’s eyelids flutter.  “Is...T’Ch...your real name?” he manages in a choked whisper.

Sam can’t help but smile.  T’Challa’s lips twitch, and his posture changes, his walls tumbling down.  “I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it?” He turns to Steve. “It was a gunshot?”

“Yes, he—” Steve starts.

“That’s all I need to know.”  T’Challa nudges Steve’s hands out of the way and lifts the towel.  “Bullet still inside, or is there an exit wound?”

“An exit wound, I think,” Steve says.  His voice goes weak and he sits back on his heels.  

“Ok,” T’Challa says.  He looks up at Sam. “You, get a basin of water.  We’ll clean him up, stem the bleeding, and go from there.  And you,” he nods to Steve. “Try not to vomit. There’s already enough of a mess.”  He laughs at Steve’s shocked expression. 

Sam joins in as he finds a mixing bowl in the cupboard and fills it in the sink.  The good prognosis becomes tangible as the sounds of mirth fill the room. Sam’s confident he made the right choice tonight.  

He sets the bowl of water on the floor along with a few clean dishrags, then moves to stand behind Steve.  He squeezes his friend’s shoulder. “He’s gonna be ok,” Sam says quietly.

“Where’d he learn…?”  Steve gestures at T’Challa, who’s shrugging out of his jacket and rolling his sleeves up to his elbows.  

“Your guy’s not the first guy to have a bad experience at the hospital,” Sam says.  “Necessity is the mother of invention.”

“Oh.  Huh.” Steve’s chest is still heaving.

“How about you?  You ok?"

“I…”  A tear rolls down Steve’s cheek.  Sam isn’t quite sure what he needs, but watching T’Challa work probably isn’t it.

“T?” Sam asks.  “You got this?”

“Yes.”  T’Challa doesn’t looking up.  He gently palpates Bucky’s stomach, then reaches for a fresh towel.  “It’s so far to the edge of the abdomen, it’s a flesh wound, really.”

“Good,” Sam says.  He pats Steve’s shoulder again.  “Come on. Let’s give ‘em some space.”

He leads Steve to the living room, and they sit on opposite ends of the couch.  Steve rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. “God,” he breathes.  

“I’m not asking,” Sam says.  “But if you wanna talk about it…”

Steve sighs.  “He was over there almost four years.  That’s a goddamn lifetime when you’re seeing, you know.  What’s on the news.”

“Mm,” Sam agrees.

“He got shot at all the time.  And he got hit.” Steve’s voice cracks.  “He’s lucky he came home. And he still...he still…”  The words die in a sob. Steve stifles it with his sleeve.

“It don’t always make sense,” Sam says quietly.  It’s a problem with no solution, a zero in the denominator that turns simple arithmetic into an issue of philosophy and religion and biomechanics.  It’s taken him years to stop running himself in circles trying to answer impossible questions. He doesn’t expect Steve to do it in a night.

“We didn’t,” Steve starts.  “I mean, things weren’t...good...between us.  When he left.” He takes a shuddering breath. “But this has to be better than what he had over there.”

“I believe it,”  Sam says. “I used to be angrier about the way things are in this country.  But when Riley died over there, I started counting my blessings. It’s a goddamn miracle my number hasn’t come up.”  He leaves it there. Perhaps it’s the structure of the Army or the competitive nature of war itself that tends to imbue rank into memories of the fallen, as if the more tragic the circumstances, the more deserving the remembrance.  Sam slides down a few feet, hoping the physical closeness will help express the empathy that’s hard to put into words.

“I didn’t mean to...bring it up…” Steve mumbles.

“It’s ok, man.  We both work with vets.  Every day,” Sam says. “I’m not over it, but it’s ok.”  He nods toward the kitchen. “He’s probably not gonna get over it either.  But eventually he’ll be ok.”

It doesn’t matter that his book-smart big brother missed his appointment at the induction center because a policeman though it more important to wrongfully accuse him of holding up a gas station.  They shipped him off anyway. It doesn’t matter that he spent longer in basic than he did in-country, but still managed to earn a medal for taking a bullet meant for someone else. It doesn’t matter that Riley died for being too nice while Bucky grew calloused and selfish.  He had to in order to survive, to watch all the Rileys die and still go through the motions, tick all the boxes, and come home a living, breathing person. 

“But...what if he’s not?”  Steve lifts his head. He looks at Sam with red-rimmed eyes.  “What if he tries again?”

If Bucky dies, even if he ends up blowing his own brains out, it’ll still be the war that kills him.  And Steve will still need to grieve him. He already needs to grieve the memory version of his friend, the one that’s never coming home, while still moving forward toward a future that has yet to take shape on the horizon.  

But it’s still too much for tonight.  Sam chooses something simpler, hoping the untempered  reality doesn’t come across as too stark. “He’s a grown man, Steve.  You can’t protect him from everything.”

“I can!” Steve insists.  “I have to.” He shakes his head, and a tear rolls down his cheek.  “I already did him wrong. I have to fix it.”

“I know you care about him a lot, but--”

“I love him, Sam.” Steve cuts him off.  “I fucking love him.” More tears fall. They cling to his chin where they glitter like beads of glass, then drip down to his collar.

“Oh.”  Sam’s words die in his throat. Several emotions rise at once, and Sam struggles to sort them out.  It’s as if he can suddenly see everything in mirror image. The tears, the emotions, the bearing of souls.  It looks different now, and it brings a sour taste to Sam’s mouth. Sam looks at his hand hovering over Steve’s shoulder.  He lets it fall to his lap.

On the one hand, Steve’s a respectable guy. He has a college degree and no criminal charges to his name.  Sam’s seen his resume. And his skimpy paycheck, too. It takes a special kind of decent to both excel in and enjoy their line of work.   

But on the other, guys who date guys are on the list of folks he’s been taught not to think too highly of.  He thinks of the names his grandfather used to mumble when a man with a certain look or inflection in his voice passed them on the street.  The guys he grabbed beers with after Panther meetings had repeated them too. But they had similar things to say about white men. And veterans.  

Steve’s still Steve.  He still has the same fierce kindness, the same sense of humor, the same habits that drive Sam up the wall.  And Steve’s his friend. Sam doesn’t need to know everything to know that. 

“So…” he says slowly.  “ When you say Nat’s not your type…?” 

“Yeah,” Steve whispers.  He nods and scrubs his fingers under his eyes.  “Yeah.”

“Huh.”  A long silence ensues.  Sam chews the inside of his cheek.  “Alright,” he finally says. “I’m not gonna pretend like I really understand it, but... alright.”

Steve smiles weakly.  Then he starts to cry again.

They’re into new territory, and Sam doesn’t have a map, let alone a plan to navigate it. So he just starts talking.  He tells Steve about the dog he had growing up, about his father’s job at the grocery store, about his mama’s blue ribbon recipe for sweet potato pie.  

“And I do believe I told her I’d be home for dinner,” Sam says with a sigh.  “I’m gonna owe her one.” He nudges Steve with his elbow. “You’d know a thing or two about that, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, I…”  Steve nods.

“You should come around next week.  Mama likes showing off her kitchen skills, even if she won’t come out and say it.”

“Hm.”  Steve wipes his eyes again.  “Ok.”

“Bring Bucky, too.  Don’t tell her how you two know each other, but she would love to get some meat on his bones.”

T’Challa appears in the doorway between the living room and kitchen.  “I stitched the wounds,” he says, his voice devoid of emotion. “He’s weak, but stable.  He needs to rest.”

Steve immediately gets to his feet.  “We can put him in the bedroom.”

Sam stands up to help.


	10. Steve

When Steve opens the door, he’s surprised to see Natasha.  “Oh. Hey,” he says, suddenly remembering their arrangement.  “Did you bring more?”

“Nah.”  She grins.  “Just thought I’d grace you with my presence.”

“Ok, um.”  Steve hesitates.  “Do you want to come in?”  

“Yeah, I gotta see inside this place.”  She follows him into the entryway and takes off her hat, hanging it on the rack behind the door as if she lives there, as it it’s what she does every day.  “I still can’t believe a kid like you lives in this mansion.”

“It’s just a house,” Steve says.  “It’s not all that.” He realizes that makes him sound rich and spoiled and all the things she probably hates, but it’s too late.

“I did bring more.”  A hint of ice imbues Nat’s tone.  “And to tell you what you owe.”

“Yeah, of course.”  Steve reaches for his wallet. There are fewer bills in it than usual.  He was supposed to take his drawings down to the newspaper office this morning, but he’s not leaving the house today.  It was enough of a task to leave Bucky’s bedside to answer the door. “How much?” he asks. 

“You’re not gonna make me a cup of coffee first?”

“Do you want a cup of coffee?” Steve pauses and returns his wallet to his pocket.

“Hell yeah.”  Nat starts toward the kitchen before Steve can say anything else.  

“Um, it’s not gonna be good,” Steve tells her as he fumbles for cups.  “Sam usually brews it at the shelter.”

“Do I look like a fucking coffee connoisseur?”

“I guess not.”  Steve offers a smile.  

They wait for the kettle to boil.  Nat busies herself playing with the lid of the sugar dish.  “I can’t believe you have one of these. It reminds me of my grandma’s house,” she says, running her finger over the rose pattern.

“It was my ma’s,” Steve says.  He pours the water and stirs, then hands Nat a mug.  “You know the story.”

“Yeah, yeah.”  She adds a generous spoon of sugar, then goes to sit at the table.  “Speaking of death and destruction, how is he?”

Steve sits across from her.  There’s no one else she can possibly be talking about, but he doesn’t want to make a wrong assumption and start the wheels of the rumor mill.  “He, you mean _ — _ ”

“J.B.  Barnes.  Whatever you call him.”

“Bucky,” Steve says.  That’s the name that makes him a real person.

“Yeah.”  Nat sips her coffee.  “He was wandering around a few days ago, but he’s not in any of the usual places, so I assumed he was back here.”

“He’s…”  Steve pauses.  He barely knows Nat.  She doesn’t have any right to know about his life, or Bucky’s.  But considering what she’s done for him, Steve feels like he owes her at least a conversation.  And part of him is desperate for the chance to talk. “He’s not doing so good.”

“I saw Sam running in your direction with Mr. tall, dark, and handsome,” Nat says.  “So I kind of assumed that too.”

“You know T’Challa?” 

“I know everybody,” Nat says with a tinkling laugh.  “Now quit changing the subject. I brought the meds. How’s the patient?”

“The meds, the, you know.”  Steve tips his head vaguely to the side.  The same concept works in reverse. Things without names don’t really exist.  “They help some. They keep him from shaking so much, and from throwing up.” 

Steve looks into the depths of his coffee cup.   “He shot himself, Nat. And it was pure chance that I came home right then and got the thing away from him.”  Putting voice to it brings it out of his head to the air between them, a cloud of relief mixed with despair hovering above the ugly green tabletop.

Nat’s eyes widen.  She swallows slowly and sets her cup down.  “Oh,” she says. Nat presses her lips together.  “I’m sorry.”

“That’s it?”  Hot anger rises in Steve’s chest, and he’s not sure why.  It’s the same as the burn of rage he felt when Bucky was about to pull the trigger.  Nat may have an attitude, but she’s just talking. He should be able to control his temper.    

“You’re sorry?” Steve spits.

“I could say something else, but you probably wouldn’t want to hear it.”

“Well, now that you’ve gone and said that.”  Steve pushes his mug away and crosses his arms. Bucky’s illness and now his injury have set an infection in him too, eating away at the walls of his stomach and befouling his mood  “Throw it at me,” Steve says, emotion spurring him on in false confidence. “ I can take it.”

“Ok.”  Nat takes a breath.  “It obviously wasn’t fatal, or I’d have heard about it.  So he’s ok, you know, physically. Since that’s all you guys care about.”

It’s obviously meant to be offensive, but it leaves Steve confused.  “All who cares about?” 

“You.  The man.  The doctors.  Everybody. Does he have enough to eat?  Does he have enough stitches? Enough morphine?  Enough material bullshit to make up for going to fight a war he didn’t want to go to in the first place?”  Nat’s voice stays even, but she’s breathing heavily by the time she finishes. 

Her words hit like a splash of hot oil, burning bubbles bursting on his skin..  Steve sits still, waiting for his brain to process the pain. When he drills his eyes into Nat’s, he sees she’s in pain too.  

“Nat?”  Steve asks quietly.  “Who’d you lose?”

“Nobody,” Nat says, too quickly.  “I just don’t like seeing this shit.  There’s more and more of it every day.  You think you’re helping, and you’re not.”

Nat’s mad now, and the twinge in Steve’s gut changes to guilt.  His situation isn’t special. And Nat’s crusty exterior doesn’t make her immune to loss, even if that’s the effect she wants.  Steve feels closer to her. Nat’s no different from anyone else he knows.

“You know Sam’s brother died, right?” Steve says.  “Riley?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“It’s ok to have lost someone _ — _ ”

“God, Steve,” Nat hisses venomously.  “I fucking know that. But here’s the thing.  Here’s what you don’t know. Sometimes you have to let them go.  Sometimes it’s better that way.” 

The onus Steve feels rises like bile in his throat.   He takes a breath and refuses to let himself wallow in it.  Not yet. “Nat,” he tries again. “What happened? What was his name?”

Nat takes a tight-lipped sip from her mug.  Then she sighs. 

“His name was Bruce.  He was there almost a year, then something happened.  Some explosion gone wrong. It was friendly fire. So they shipped him back.”

“Hm.” Steve leans forward to rest his elbows on the table.

Nat shakes her head.  “He was different. He was...angry.  He wasn’t the same guy.” She wipes her sleeve under her eyes before the tears have a chance to fall.

Steve doesn’t know what to say.  He can see the outlines of himself and Bucky shimmering in the reflection of the story.  And it scares him. “What happened?” Steve asks again.

“He left,” Nat says shortly, lifting her mug and setting it back down.  Then she looks at Steve. “Maybe you’re not what’s best for him. You know?”

“No, hold on,” Steve cuts in.  “Are you saying Bucky was better off on the streets?  Shooting up however many times a day, nursing his own infected wounds, sleeping in vacant lots?”

“I’m saying he didn’t try to kill himself before _ — _ ”

Steve can’t let her say it.  “Shut the fuck up. You don’t know that.”

“Don’t be stupid, Steve-o.  If he tried, he wouldn’t’ve missed.”

“Nat.”  The fire ignites again; his vision shimmers with the heat.  Steve stands up. “Get out of here.” He points to the door.  “Just go, ok?” 

Steve takes a breath, ignoring the scorch in his lungs.  He remembers Nat’s money. Even if he’s furious with her, he still respects their deal.  And Bucky still needs her goods. “How much do I owe you?”

Nat cackles loudly.  “I’m keeping it for myself.  Since apparently you can take care of everything on your own.”  She snatches her hat and opens the front door. “And that really was shit coffee.”

The door slams hard enough to rock the house on its foundation.  Steve should go and see if Bucky’s alright, if the noise woke him up.  But he’s barely moved since Steve and Sam carried him into bed. Steve barely makes it back to the kitchen before his own knees give way.  

The chair Nat was sitting in is closest, and it’s still warm.  It adds to the angry fever coursing through Steve’s body, bringing a flush to his cheeks and beads of sweat to his forehead. 

Why did he treat her like that?  What did he think he was going to get, besides a burned bridge?  He rarely makes the walk to work without seeing her face, and he can already imagine a future full of dirty looks.  

But, more importantly, what does it mean for Bucky?  Steve never dreamed he’d be in a spot like this, reduced to tears over the availability of illegal drugs.  But his eyes well up all the same. 

Steve’s sure there are other dealers out there.  But he’s also sure Nat has a wide reach, and he trusts her to be spiteful enough to turn his name to mud.  Her cronies are probably already hearing stories about him. And Steve trust her to tell them the stories that are true.  

Steve folds his arms over the table.  He drops his forehead to his wrists. Numbness begins to spread through his core.  Within a minute, he’s cold. 

Steve misses the heat of the anger.  At least that gave him something to feel, something to fight for.  Now he’s not sure he cares.

_ Bucky could die _ , he thinks.  The gunshot wound could get infected.  He could keep refusing to eat and end up starving himself.  He could dehydrate during withdrawal, or choke to death on his own vomit.  And Steve’s just sitting there. Crying. About something that happened with a girl, of all things.

The next sob that bursts from his throat becomes a bark of laughter, misplaced and maniacal.  Steve’s coming unhinged, the nuts and bolts holding his psyche together popping out and rolling across the floor.  If anyone heard him, he’d sound insane. As insane as Bucky was before he pulled the trigger.

Steve forces himself to inhale slowly through the contractions of his diaphragm.  He wipes his eyes, then cages his fingers over his mouth and digs his nails into his lower lip.  He tastes the residue of coffee on his hand. 

Steve doesn’t have time to feel sorry for himself.  He doesn’t have time to feel sorry for Bucky either.  There’s only time for action. 

Steve carries the abandoned mugs to the sink.  He washes them quickly, then heads for the bedroom, still drying his hands on the seat of his jeans.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Vietnamese script in the this chapter’s art reads "Red or dead for communism; invaders, leave us in peace."


	11. James

Bucky wakes in bed.  It’s not somewhere he’s used to being, and he doesn’t like it.  He pushes his head into the pillow as he looks side to side, searching out the shadow of an oxygen tank or an IV stand.  He doesn’t see them, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there. 

“The fuck...” he groans, but it comes out as gibberish wrapped in the sounds of weakness and pain.    
  
“Shh, it’s ok.”  

Steve gets it.  Steve, who is definitely there.  He sits in a misplaced kitchen chair with his knees up against the side of the mattress.  He’s too close. The chair’s paint is too bright. 

Bucky starts to sit up, but Steve reaches to stop him.  
“No... I don’t wanna be here.”  Still gibberish.   
  
Steve still tracks with him.  Bucky wishes he wouldn’t. He wishes Steve would leave him alone.  He’s wished it since Steve first brought him here, and for someone who so thoroughly understands him, Steve must be plain stupid not to get the message.   
  
“You’re home, ok?  You’re in my house.  You’re safe.”  
  
He’s in Steve’s house.  In Steve’s bed. The only one left in the house after they’d carried his mother’s old bedroom set out to the curb.  Then they’d stripped to their sweaty undershirts and shared a beer, then shared a lot more...  
  
Steve’s asking him a question.  Bucky pulls himself past three years and ten months of intermittent fire and thunderstorms and tells his brain to stay planted in the present.  It’s hard, though. One look into Steve’s eyes and he’s already drifting back to the safe, fluffy fog of high school. 

Fuck.  It would be easier if Steve left him alone.   
  
“How’re you feeling?”    
  
He’s not in high school.  He must be back at the hospital.  “I don’t wanna be here,” Bucky says again.  This time his raw throat manages to make the words.    
  
“You’re real sick, Buck.”  He doesn’t recognize the look on Steve’s face.  Not a smile. Not sadness. Like the two things combined, but not that either.  “Real sick.”   
  
That’s not what the doctors told him.  They said he was hurt. Bucky wonders if he’s getting better or worse.  He reaches up to push his hair back, watching his hand move past his face.  It’s slow and heavy, but it looks bonier than he remembers.    
  
“Do you... do you know what happened?” Steve asks.    
  
“Bomb,” Bucky answers automatically.  That’s what the doctors told him. That’s what it says on his discharge papers.    
  
“Oh,” Steve says.  “Well, yeah, but, what about yesterday?  Do you remember that?”   
  
There are a lot of yesterdays jammed together in Bucky’s leaky memory.  He left the hospital the same day he got blown up, which was the same day he landed in ‘Nam, which was the same day the letter came.  There was another yesterday before that. But it was different.    
  
“Buck.”  Steve pats his knee. “D’you remember?”   
  
Bucky lets out a breath, which makes his lungs hurt down to his groin.  “No,” he finally mutters. “Don’... really want to.”   
  
What he wants is another hit of the good stuff.  Now that his chest is screaming its discomfort, his head joins in the discordant chorus.  And his stomach. And his very skin.    
  
“Bucky...”  The not-happy-not-sad look in Steve’s eyes changes.  He looks scared, Bucky realizes. But not scared like the other boys in his platoon looked when their jeep ran over something it shouldn’t’ve.  More like the scared you get when you turn in a test without knowing the answers. Or when you lean in close for the first time without knowing if the other person’s ready.    
  
Bucky isn’t ready for Steve’s hand on his forehead.  Suddenly his reflexes are back, and he blocks him, the bones of their forearms connecting and bouncing off each other.  Bucky doesn’t realize he’s sitting up until his side explodes in agony. He curls instinctively, dragging his legs to his chest while his mouth twists into a grimace.    
  
“Easy.”  Steve grips both Bucky’s shoulders and holds him still until he begins to slacken again.  “Try not to move too much. Don’t want to tear your stitches.”    
  
Bucky barely hears him.  He’s busy trying to breathe and swallow down stomach acid and fight the urge to scratch at the rivers of sweat running into his eyes.  He exhales longer than should be possible. It’s the kind of breath that should be a man’s last. Bucky wishes it was. He wishes he had a hit.    
  
“I need...”  He looks up at Steve. “It hurts.”   
  
“I know, Buck.”  Steve uses a cloth to dab the clamminess from Bucky’s face.  “Let’s try water first. And some aspirin.”

“But…”  It’s not what Bucky wants to hear.

“Hey.  Listen to me.”  Steve holds the cloth still against Bucky’s upper lip.  “There isn’t any more. I’m sorry.”

There was some yesterday, wasn’t there?  Or at least one of the yesterdays. He isn’t sure which one.  

“But…?”  Bucky’s positive he remembers Steve sitting next to him, looking down carefully as he released the liquid in the syringe into Bucky’s vein.  So he missed Bucky giving him eyes.

“Things change fast, Buck.”  Steve lowers the cloth to his lap.  He twists it between his hands. “We just gotta try something else.”

A spark carries from the wound in Bucky’s side, up through his chest, and lights a fuse of anger.  The words burst from him before he quite has his tongue around them. “No! There was. I can’t.” 

“Take a breath.  It’s gonna be ok.”

“I can’t.”  It echoes in Bucky’s head, begging for him to repeat it.  He can’t take this. He can’t live like this. Not with the pain.  Not with the night terrors that hit every time he lets sleep claim him naturally, without the smothering cushion of one substance or another.

“Yes, you can.  We’ve been through a lot before.”

Steve’s missing the point.  Bucky doesn’t know how to tell him that except to shake his head until his vision goes blurry and and his stomach jumps into his throat.

“Don’t do that.  You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

“What the fuck would you know about it?”  Everything already hurts. Bucky’s already angry.  He can’t remember which one started first.

“You’re right,” Steve says.  “I don’t know anything about it.  I’m trying.” He holds Bucky’s gaze.  Bucky looks down, but he can still feel Steve’s eyes boring into him.

“Maybe you should stop.”  The words drift out of Bucky’s mouth before he has a chance to consider their weight.

“Maybe you should talk to me.”  Steve’s getting brazen. A furrow forms between his brows in an expression Bucky finds positively endearing.  Attractive. Hot, even. But his message couldn’t be colder. “I’m not the one who couldn’t open up until he had a gun in his hand.”

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters.  “Fuck this.” He shoves the blankets down to his knees and heaves himself upright, gritting his teeth as his side screams in agony.  

“Bucky, stop _ — _ ”

“Fuck you.”  Bucky doesn’t want to hear it.  He swings his legs over the side of the bed where Steve’s not and eases onto his feet.  His head swims for a moment as he finds equilibrium, then he trips toward the door. The pajama pants he’s wearing are too long, but at least Steve’s dressed him in something.  Bucky doesn’t waste time on gratitude, though.

“Wait, we’ll figure something out.”  Steve stands up too. “You’re not well.  I want to help you.”

“I don’t wanna play by your fucking rules, Steve!”  Bucky uses the door frame for support so he has more energy to shout.  “And I don’t fucking have to. I’m getting out of your hair, ok? I’m making my own goddamn rules.”  

Bucky turns and starts down the hallway.  He hears Steve’s footsteps behind him for a few paces, but by the time he reaches the front door, they’ve stopped. 

Everything’s a daze of pain and dizziness.  Bucky gets halfway out of the neighborhood before he realizes he isn’t wearing shoes.  It’s too late to go back now. And who knows if he’ll live long enough for it to matter.  

Desperation carries him down the sidewalk toward the main drag.  He’ll settle for anything, so long as whoever’s selling doesn’t want something in return.  Bucky has nothing left to give.

He looks down Fifth street as he passes the intersection.  The sky is thick with clouds. It’s impossible to tell the time by the sun, but it must be mealtime.  There’s a crowd in front of the shelter. The place is ticking along like it always has, even though Steve isn’t there.  Bucky forces himself to look forward again. 

Nat’s sitting cross-legged at the corner, boredly strumming her guitar while Hawk plays with her hair.  Bucky stops and stares at them. He feels awkward and imposing and brutish, standing there clutching his side and panting while they share a carefree moment.  

“What?”  Nat snaps.  Her melody ends with a discordant note.  

“I, um…” Bucky swallows.  He feels sick now. 

“Get the fuck out of here, J.B.,” she says.  

“Hey, cool it.”  Hawk tries to rein her in with finger under her chin.

“Shut up,” Nat hisses at him.  She looks at Bucky. “And you scram.”  She shakes her head. “You have no idea what you’re throwing away.”

“Hm?”  The words don’t make sense in Bucky’s jumbled mind.  He gets that he’s not welcome, though, so he keeps stepping.  

By the time he gets to the next intersection, though, neurons fire in a delayed reaction, and Nat’s meaning hits.  Steve’s does too, and a thousand words from a thousand tongues fall on ears that can suddenly hear. Their volume rises until it becomes the echo of a bomb exploding in Bucky’s head, and he can’t hold back the nausea anymore.  He stumbles into the alley and braces himself against the wall as he dry heaves, too sick to go on, and too sad to go back.

 

 


	12. Steve

For one minute, Steve gives up.  He decides he’s done. He stands in the hallway, his heart sinking to his feet, the numbness setting in.  

Then the pistons in his chest start pumping again.

“Goddammit!”  Steve slams the front door that Bucky left open.  He slams it harder than Nat did, harder than the house should be able to withstand.  He’s angrier than he’s ever been in his life. Rage burns together with grief and love into a passion that  swallows up everything around him, leaving him with tunnel vision and a thudding heart.

Steve opens the door again.  He jogs toward the shelter, a bizarre reverse of the way he’d run home...that day.  He hadn’t known what he’d find, but his body knew he needed to get there quickly. He needs to move quickly now too.

The glass in the broken panel has been replaced.  For a moment Steve feels guilty he wasn’t there to meet the repairman, but he decides on a blanket of relief instead.  He slides past a gaggle of older men in threadbare coats and scans the room, clutching a stitch in his chest. 

Sam’s sitting at a table nursing a glass of water and talking to Nick.  He looks up when he sees Steve.

“Hey!  My man!  You’re back.”  Sam grins. “Look who I got servin’.”  He points through the window to the kitchen, where T’Challa and Scott are setting out cobbler.

“Oh,” Steve says, unable to portray any emotion in his breathlessness.  “Good.”

“What’s wrong?”  Sam’s demeanor changes.  “Are you ok?”

Steve nods.

“Is it Bucky?”

Steve nods again.  “I need your car.”

“What happened?”  Sam stands up to dig in his pocket.

“I...there’s no time,” Steve says.  He catches the keys Sam tosses to him.  “Thanks. I owe—”

“Man, you gotta stop saying that,” Sam says.  “Or somebody’s gonna expect you to make good.”

“I am,” Steve says.  “That’s a promise.”  He just has to fulfill his promise to Bucky first.

He sprints to the curb and jumps into the car.  Steve drives as fast as he dares, barely pausing at stop signs, as he turns his head in every direction.  He stares into the face of every person he passes. “Come on. Come on, Buck,” He mutters. He can’t have gone far.  It’s just a matter of looking hard enough.

Someone steps into the street, and Steve slams on the brakes.  He lays on the horn and rolls down the window. He’s about to curse whoever it is, more concerned with the lost time than the safety risk.  But he recognizes the straw hat and mop of red curls. 

“Nat!  What the hell?”  

She looks at Steve slowly, her eyes unfocused.  A grin spreads across her face. “Got any cash?” she giggles.  “Or coffee?”

“Aw, shit.”  She’s high out of her mind.  Probably on the dope meant for Bucky.  “Hey, Nat, listen,” Steve says.

Nat approaches the driver’s side and cups Steve’s cheek through the window.  “Whatever you say, baby.”

“Hey.”  Steve reaches up and takes her hand, praying she’s in good enough shape to talk to him.  Or at least listen. “Where’s Bucky? Where’s J.B.?” He gives her a second, then prods further.  “Did he come this way?”

Nat blinks at him.  “No,” she finally says.  “He went…” She points vaguely in the other direction.  “It was a long time ago, man.”

An anxious thrill ripples up from Steve’s stomach.  “Thanks, Nat.” Steve squeezes her hand and gives her a gentle push toward the sidewalk.  “I’ll make you another cup of coffee. When you’re sober.”

Steve waits till she’s clear, then flips the car around.  He speeds down the block, barely glancing at the ground he’s already covered.  The tires squeal as he turns down the next street, his breath quickening in anticipation.  

It’s the point of early evening when the streets are as good as deserted.  The decent folk are home for the night, and the teenage hoodlums haven’t come out yet.  The only people around are the ones who are always there. Like Nat. Like… 

A figure stands hunched in the space between two buildings.  Steve doesn’t need to see the long stringy hair or the singular trembling arm to know he’s found him.

Steve puts on the hazard lights and pulls over.  He jumps out of the car, leaving it running in his haste.  “Bucky!” Steve calls. 

Bucky spits and wipes his mouth on his shoulder.  “No,” he rasps.

“Buck, get in the car.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Steve says.  He doesn’t have a good reason.  Not one he can articulate. Not one Bucky’s going to understand  “Because...you have to.”

“I don’t have to to anything,” Bucky says.  He coughs and wraps his arm protectively around his stomach.

“You’re right,” Steve sighs.  “But...get in the car. Please.  For me.”

“And what if I don’t?”

“Then…”  Steve shrugs and bites his lip.  “I guess you don’t.”

Bucky stares at him, his mouth slightly open.  Steve slowly counts to ten in his head. Then he turns back to the car.  He moves dreamily, a heavy block tamping down his rising emotion like a cork holding off bubbles of carbonation.  Steve gets in and is about to put it in drive when the passenger door opens. 

Bucky falls clumsily into the seat.  “You better not be taking me to the hospital,” he grunts.

“Don’t worry,” Steve says.  Then he goes quiet. Bucky doesn’t make a sound either.  

Steve follows a circuitous route through town.  He turns into the parking lot in front of the high school.  The  _ Students for Peace _ banner out front flaps in the breeze.  Steve pushes the car faster, driving diagonally across the parking spaces, then right over the curb and onto the football field.  

He stops short, and dirt and clods of grass spin out from the tires.  He throws open his door. “Look. That’s our school.” 

Steve points at the football goal, its chipped yellow paint standing out against the overcast sky.  “That’s where you broke the state record for most touchdowns made in a single season. That’s where I had an asthma attack at tryouts, so they wouldn’t even let me be kicker.”  He turns to look at Bucky, desperately hoping for recognition to alight in his blank eyes. 

“And that.”  Steve jerks his chin toward the dilapidated structure between the field and the school.  “Up against that wall, right there, behind the locker rooms. That’s where you first kissed me.”  He fights to keep his breath even. “ _ You _ kissed  _ me _ .  I might be the one calling the shots right now, but you started this.  You made me fall in love with you.”

Bucky makes a deflating sound.  “I...made you?”

“What, do you think I wanted this?”  It’s easier for Steve to shout now than to let the tears fall, to ride the burst of bravado before the inevitable valley of guilt catches back up.

“Fuck.  Yeah, I thought you wanted it,” Bucky growls.  “If you didn’t, why’d you let it get so far? Huh?”

“Buck…”

“Yeah, I wanted you.  But apparently you didn’t want me that bad, because as soon as I was out of sight, out of the country protecting your fucking panty waist, you go and forget all about  me. Not one single letter in four goddamn years.”

“I…”  Steve swallows hard.  He’s plummeting now, and he can’t keep the sob down.  His lip trembles as he whispers. “Bucky. I’m sorry. You shoulda...when you came back...”

“Sure, I got shot at and blown up and I don’t remember things like I used to, but I didn’t forget.  I didn’t forget who didn’t write me, who didn’t send me shit. I got a letter from Peggy Carter. Remember her?  That girl you took dancing in, what, eighth grade? She was your friend, Stevie. Your girl. I barely even knew her.”

“I didn't…”  Steve slowly shakes his head.  “I didn’t, I never had a girl, Buck.  You know that.”

“Well,” Bucky spits.  “She wrote me. And I wrote her back.”

“I fucked up,” Steve says.  It’s the smallest cut that bleeds the most, the slice from the flap of an envelope that leaves a smear of red across the smooth white paper.  “I should’ve done better, ok? I didn’t think _ — _ ”

“What, you didn’t think I’d care?”  Bucky laughs derisively. “You were always the soft one, but I’m not fucking heartless.”

“That’s not what I said, ok?”  Steve’s volume rises again. “What rights do I have?  We’re not family. If you’d been killed, they’d send some courrier to your sister’s place, or your ma’s, or somebody else who moved away from here, and I’d be lucky to find out in the newspaper.  What if I sent a letter and it came right back, huh? You ever think about that?”

“No,” Bucky scoffs.  “No. I’m sorry, I didn’t think about your goddamn feelings.  Not when you were in fucking art school. Not while I was crying myself to sleep because I killed an innocent little girl!”  His voice goes raw around the edges.

“I know I did wrong.”  The tears fall freely now, leaving tracks down Steve’s cheeks.  “But you should’ve told me when you came back. You should’ve found me.  You should’ve yelled at me. Cause that would’ve been better.”

“I didn’t know you were still here, punk!  For all I knew, you stayed in the city, working for some gallery or a magazine or some shit.  You were always better than the rest of the folks here.” Bucky’s voice breaks on the last word.

“Why’d you think I came back, Buck?” Steve asks quietly.  “Why do you think I do what I do?”

Bucky takes a breath, but says nothing.

“I look at every face of every guy who comes through those doors.  Just in case. Just in case you came back here too. Because being with you again is better than being in New York City.  It’s better than a fancy job.”

“You could’ve enlisted.”  Bucky’s voice is barely above a whisper now.  “You could’ve come with me, if you really wanted to.”

Steve grips the steering wheel, trying to control the tremors in his arms, to force air in and out of his lungs.  “No, I couldn’t’ve,” he sighs. “And you know it. They would’ve said no, just like on the fucking football team.”  He looks at Bucky, taking in his profile as he stares straight ahead. A tear rolls down his cheek, changing its curve as it falls.  

“You’re a fucking coward.”  Bucky’s hand clenches into a fist on his knee.  

“I guess…”  Steve’s breath hitches.  “I guess I’d rather be a coward than a failure.  And I’d rather forget you than lose you.”

“God.”  Bucky flings his door open and starts to get out.  “I’m not even mad at you. I should be, but I just...I can’t.  I don’t care that you took the easy way out. I’m mad that you had the goddamn choice!”  He punches the hood of the car, then tips his chin skyward. “Fuck!”

“Hey.  Ok.” Steve gets out of the car.  Bucky looks ready to fall over. Steve reaches for his shoulder, but Bucky pushes him away.  

“Don’t fucking touch me.”

“Buck.  Come on.”

“Get the fuck away from me!”

“Ok.”  Steve lifts his hands.  “Ok. I will. Just listen to me, ok?”

“Jesus.  Fuck.” Bucky embeds his hand in his hair and turns away, but Steve can still see the sobs wracking his shoulders.

“I love you, Buck.  I’m always gonna love you.”  Steve’s voice breaks into a thousand pieces.  The jagged edges tear at his throat and cut off his breath.  Dizziness assaults him, and he backs up until the front bumper of the car appears behind his knees.  Steve digs the toe of his shoe into the grass and lets himself cry without shame. Without fear.

A minute passes.  Then two. Then five. 

Then finally, “Hey.”  Bucky sits heavily on the hood at Steve’s side.  His stump arm presses against Steve’s shoulder. “I, um.”  He swallows. “To the end of the line, right?”

“Yeah.  To the end of the line.”  Steve doesn’t bother to wipe his eyes.  Now each tear he sheds seems to lighten the weight on his heart.  He leans into Bucky. He wants to say more, but he just laughs.

“You’re a mess,” Bucky says with a teary chuckle of his own.

“You’re one to talk.”  Steve swings his arm around Bucky’s neck and kisses the top of his head.

Bucky does him one better and turns and presses a kiss to his lips.

Steve lets him.  And he kisses him back.

 

 


End file.
